How To Irritate Your Flat mate
by Sherlockian Dreams
Summary: When Sherlock told John 'the worst about him' he missed out a few vital things xD a series of drabbles all about our favourite characters' little quirks. Mainly Sherlock and John, but may include others too. Ideas welcome xD (no slash)
1. Head in the Fridge

How to irritate your flat mate

**Disclaimer: I do not own these amazing characters; they belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and in this case Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat! Thank you so much BBC, for bringing these wonderful characters to my life!**

_A/n: Hello again! I suppose you could call this another impulse thing, I find that I really enjoy writing on impulse, and writing cheerful things makes me happy XD._

_Anyways, I hope you enjoy it! Xxx _

I made a noise that was a cross between a yelp and a strangled cry. Then, finally regaining the use of my tongue, swore _very _loudly, making Mrs Hudson jump from her place by the door way, where she was holding the shopping bags.

"Dear me, can you stop the language dear?" she scalded me, frowning slightly.

I swung the fridge door shut, slightly too stunned to speak after my intense shock.

It was not every day you look in the fridge for an innocent bottle of milk and see someone's decapitated head glaring at you gormlessly from the bottom shelf.

Even when living with Sherlock.

I mean fingers were one thing, yeah, I could put up with those. But a head! A _head_! A human head. Well, it was a whole different matter.

It had been bad enough the last time.

It was always the head in the fridge.

_Always._

It took a while to restart my heart.  
When the moment passed, I gestured to Mrs Hudson.  
"Where the hell does he get this stuff?" I cried.  
"What dear?" she asked vaguely, seemingly preoccupied with something in the bag. Perhaps she was hoping to deflect my rage that way.  
"That bloody head," I said vehemently, "the fingers, the toes, the- the-" I shuddered, refusing to even say the word as the less than unpleasant memory came back to me, "you know- bloody body parts!"  
"Probably from the morgue, that lovely girl Molly Hooper does everything for him, bless her, she's a sweetheart,"

I grit my teeth and take a deep breath, glancing around the flat as if expecting to see him there somewhere.  
"Where is he anyway?" I seethe, clenching my fists.

_When I got hold of him..._

"Now John dear," Mrs Hudson chided, "don't go picking a fight,"

"But there's a bloody head in the fridge!" I protested.

"Get him to clear it out when he comes home," she smiled, "or I will, he has no sense of hygiene at all, can you imagine all the germs..."

I zoned out and let her go on a bit.

And consequently refused to go anywhere near the head for the rest of the day.

Sherlock took his sweet time getting home, and as soon as he did, I spent at least half an hour shouting myself hoarse before going out for a walk. I needed to clear my head.

He really had given me a shock, and I _wasn't_ letting it go easily.

10 minutes after that I received a text.

Head cleared out- experiment complete -SH

I sighed, I guess that was his way of apologising.

At least he had got rid of it, though I suspected Mrs Hudson had a hand in that particular problem.

My phone buzzed again.

Are you coming home? SH

I bit back a smile.

Yes I'm coming home- JW

I slipped my phone back in my pocket and turned around, in the direction of Baker Street.

_A/n: let me know what you think! _

_I'm in a dilemma. I could leave it here, or make it a collection of drabbles, based on Sherlock's little quirks, and maybe even John's? And if you have any ideas, you could just let me know? Xxx _

_Let me know what you think! You're the reader. It's up to you guys Xxx _


	2. The Skull

The Skull

_A/n: thanks for the great response guys! Keep the ideas coming, and I'll do my best! This one was inspired by guest- Wave xD I hope I did a good job!_

_I guess I should throw in a warning for rather blasphemous language. _

_Enjoy! Xxx_

The sound of clattering and banging pulled me from my sleep.

For a moment, I was incredibly disorientated. Incredibly. What the hell was that?

More clattering, and, if I was not very much mistaken, a rather desperate cry.

I blinked. Not Sherlock surely?

I rubbed my eyes with a yawn and padded downstairs warily to the source of the noise.

The door swung open.

And my mouth must have hit the floor.

I swear a bomb had gone off.

"Jesus. Lord. Mary. Christ. god," I stammered, every other word in the English dictionary failing to register in my head at this moment, "what. The bloody hell. Are you. DOING!"

Sherlock, the source of everything, as usual, stopped and looked up, doing a fantastic impression of a deer caught in headlights.

"John!"

"What in Christ's name have you been doing?" I spluttered again, all signs of sleep completely gone.

The room was unrecognisable. Everything was strewn everywhere. Table upturned. Books all over the floor. Just... Everything!

Sherlock stood up, dishevelled, hair wild and unkept, and went over to me.

"Where's Skull?"

I blinked, hoping to high heaven and lord almighty that I had just imagined that.

"What?" I attempted to clarify.

His eyes widened in a pitiful attempt to look woebegone.

"I can't find Skull,"

"You mean that skull you keep?"

"It's Skull! I've lost him!"

I gaped at him. I was not equipped to deal with possessive 6 foot 5 year olds at 6.30 in the morning.

"The skull?" I tried to clarify again, I couldn't seem to get my head around it.

"Skull," he pointed to the fireplace, where, I noticed, the skull had disappeared.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, partly exasperated, partly to try and wake myself up from this bizzare world where my mad genius flat mate christened human skulls.

"Sherlock," I said steadily, trying to force down my rather overflowing annoyance, "it. Is. A. Skull,"

"But it's my skull! It's mine! Where is he?"

Oh dear lord, he was going around the twist. I was pretty sure I'd just heard him say 'he'.

"Did you just call it a he?" I spluttered, relieved that my mouth was working again. I couldnt get last this point.

He looked at me as though I was an idiot.

"Of course! It's Skull! Have you seen him?"

How in hell could this intelligent detective get so possessive over a skull?

"Christ alive," I was dimly aware that I was being rather blasphemous this morning, but paid no heed, "Sherlock this is bloody ridiculous! And there's no need to bloody wreck the place for it! What the hell were you thinking?"

"You need to help me find him John! I can't find him!"

I flailed for words, but ended up opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish. I just couldn't believe this!

"I can't deal with your skull issues," I told him, "have you even asked Mrs Hudson?"

"I tried shouting but she didn't hear,"

I think I might have growled.

"So you couldn't be arsed to go and see her before you destroyed our flat!" I yelled.

He blinked.

"But I can't find Skull," his voice was subdued now. He looked, there's no other word for it, longingly at the empty space on the mantle piece.

Of all the things to become attached to, Sherlock chose a skull. Not a person, a living person, or a photograph, or anything normal, no. Sherlock bloody Holmes chose a skull.

"Right," I forced myself to breath deeply, and turned, stalking out the flat downstairs to Mrs Hudson.

"Have you seen Sherlock's skull?" I asked immediately before she could speak, rapidly loosing my temper.

She looked surprised.

"Yes, I took it downstairs for a bit of cleaning, why?"

She looked startled as I nearly exploded with fury.

"That lazy..." I stopped myself, held out my hand, "can you give it to me?"

She hurried off and returned moments later, setting the skull in my hand. I glared at it. It was responsible for my now inhabitable flat.

"Thanks,"

When I got upstairs and Sherlock saw the skull, he practically jumped on top of me.

"Thank you, thank you,"

He hugged the skull.

And that was all it took for me to tip over the edge.

the rest of the morning I spent yelling at Sherlock, and to some extent, the skull, and Sherlock sat in his chair, cradling the skull in his hand. Jesus, I could have sworn he was about to start saying 'my precious'.

Such was how I realised that Sherlock can get very attached to certain things. And how Sherlock learnt never to bring me into skull searches again. I didn't think I could handle it.

_A/n: a review or two would be lovely! If you have any ideas, let me know xxx_


	3. Nicotine

Nicotine

_A/n: thank you guys so much for your lovely feedback and all the ideas! I will try to do all of them because they really are all great! I just hope I can do them justice!_

_This one was inspired by Sherlockian082994, who asked for nicotine withdrawal._

_I hope its ok xxx _

A book sailed past my head.

I rolled my eyes, and ignored it. The book hit the wall with a resounding smack.

A second book sailed past my nose. I saw enough to glimpse the red cover before that too hit the wall, and joined the steadily growing pile by the window.

Soon after that, the air seemed thick with flying books, as thick as the snow outside.

Loose pages fluttered like moths in the grey half-light. One landed in my lap.

I studied it blandly. It was from my notebook.

"Sherlock, can you quit destroying out bookshelf?" I said politely, to cover up my growing annoyance.

The next book that became airborne fell perfectly into my lap. I took that as a resilient no.

"Look, I know you're bored-,"

"Well observed-,"

I pursed my lips, "but there's nothing I can do," I finished, otherwise ignoring his interruption.

The throwing suddenly stopped, and he was in front of me. His eyes were wide, manic, and desperate.

He held out his hand mutely.

I looked at it impassively.

"No,"

He groaned, and stalked off, pacing by the window furiously, dragging his hand through his hair.

"I need some, get me some! I need some!" he practically wailed.

"You have nicotine patches- use them," I said calmly, refusing to get worked up by this ridiculous, raging, 5 year old lunatic.

"But I've used them all! I need some…" he trailed off when he saw my look of disbelief.

"But you only brought some the other day! Are you telling me you've used them all up already?" I protested.

He wordlessly pulled up his shirt sleeve, and I saw no less that 5 nicotine patches on his arm.

"Jesus Christ!" I yelped. No wonder he was agitated, the man was as high as a bloody kite, "and you want cigarettes too?"

He hopped up and down as if he was on hot coals, "they're wearing off, I need some… please," he gave me his best 'kicked puppy' look. I stared at him. As if I hadn't worked that one out yet.

"There's no way in hell I'm giving you a cigarette after those patches," I told him.

His eyes widened.

"Would you have given one to me before?"

I paused for a fraction of a second, "no,"

His pout turned immediately to a glare.

"I hate you,"

Oh Christ, how many times had I heard that before? I rolled my eyes.

"Yeah ok, I'm still not giving you any,"

"Why?" he stormed around the room, as if impersonating an angry bull in a china shop.

"Z,"

My sarcastic answer snapped Sherlock, and he yelled at me for quite some time. It was quite riveting watching someone get redder and redder before they had to pause for breath. And then at the end of it all-

"No," I told him simply.

He glared at me, as if the intensity of his glare could change my answer.

I smirked.

"It's still a no,"

Finally, Sherlock lay face down on the sofa, head in the cushion. I heard him muttering under his breath, but I couldn't make out what he was saying.

I took the opportunity to look around the room. Huh, I'd never realised how many books we'd had until now.

There were quiet a considerable amount for sure.

Sherlock wouldn't find his cigarettes in the bookshelf, which apparently, he was convinced they were.

They were actually hidden in my room, a place where Sherlock never ventured. It was a pretty safe idea to be honest.

"John?" Sherlock's muffled voice asked.

"Hmm," I looked at his limp body, the ridiculous curls, and creased shirt. He was talking into the cushion.

"If you give me my cigarettes-,"

I rolled my eyes again, and turned away, studying the book in my lap.

Nothing he said would change my answer. _Nothing. _

"Then I'll buy you enough jam to last a month,"

My head snapped up. He was watching me now, a large smirk plastered on his face.

"You- you manipulative b******," I said furiously.

I should have known that he would use my weakness as a bribe.

I knew that I really should say no, but… it was jam…

I had a mini battle inside my head, but eventually, my jam loving side won. I sighed in resignation.

"I should punch you," I growled at him; he smirked again.

"But you won't,"

"I could," I warned him.

He rolled his head to face me. I knew straight from the look on his face that he knew he had won.

I groaned and went upstairs to get them, and then threw them at him with as much force as I could.

Unfortunately for me, he caught them one handed.

"Thank you John," he said cheerfully.

"Pee off," I suggested, sitting back down with a huff.

"I'll buy you some jam tomorrow,"

"Shut up,"

"I don't really hate you,"

I swore at him in response, and ignored him for the rest of the day.

_A/n: I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and a review or two would be lovely. _

_Keep the ideas coming!_

_Oh, and don't worry, all of your ideas will come up, even if it's not straight away, I will definitely write a chapter for all of them. Xxx _


	4. Christmas Shopping

Christmas shopping

_A/n: im really sorry about the wait I don't really know what happened to me. Please don't be angry! _

_So this one was inspired by guest- Ripple, who wanted an extension on John's Christmas shopping experience. It's taken from his blog –_

'_**I'd taken Sherlock out Christmas shopping which, looking back, wasn't the best of ideas. He'd shouted at a Father Christmas that he was bored and wanted a nice juicy murder for Christmas - in front of a bunch of kids and their parents.'**_

_So, I hope I did it justice, and enjoy! Xxx _

Overall, the day really wasn't going well for me.

I was traipsing around the shopping centre, tired and generally in a bad mood as I tried to elbow my way through the sea of people, all bustling around trying to get their Christmas shopping in. I had Sherlock with me.

And Sherlock wasn't happy.

2 hours prior to us being in the middle of this light adorned Christmas shopping hell, I had somehow managed to persuade Sherlock to come and join me in my quest to get in everyone's presents, saying that he was the only one who knew what to get Mycroft for Christmas, and thus earning the evils of a lifetime.

But he relented, which I had, at the time, personally taken as an achievement worth being commended for.

But now, I was seriously. _Seriously_. Regretting it.

Half an hour after we had parked up, Sherlock decided the time was ripe to have a tantrum.

In the middle of the shop.

Had the floor opened up and tried to swallow me whole, I would have gladly allowed it. Instead, however, I had to deal with the world's only 6 foot toddler, and propel him out of the shop before anyone realised that the huge pile of clothes on the floor of the shop had been strategically put there by me to cover up the fact that Sherlock had broken a vase.

Sherlock found it funny.

I didn't.

No less than 5 minutes later, he thought it was a brilliant idea to let the people shopping in Debenhams know that the manager was having an affair.

God bloody help me, for I was left to deal with the very red, very angry manager, who demanded to know he had known about that, and refused to let me buy anything from the shop. In the end, I had been towed out the shop, and had yelled at Sherlock for at least 10 minutes before deciding that I needed a drink.

Somewhat 10 minutes after that, seated at the coffee shop with my tea, and my completely insane flat mate, I realised all too late that Sherlock had 'experimented' with my drink. In other words, he thought it was absolutely hilarious to put salt in my drink.

In had me coughing and spluttering and generally making a scene in the café, and left me red, embarrassed and absolutely furious with a certain curly haired idiot.

If I had thought then, that the day couldn't get any worse, I was sadly mistaken. We had entered a book store, and Sherlock had set eyes on a book.

A book about bumblebees.

And from that moment, he refused point blank to let go of it.

I tried desperately to wrestle the huge and heavy book from Sherlock's suddenly vice like grip, while he shouted at me to let go. Honestly, I had thought the worst was over when I had encountered Sherlock's possessiveness with the skull, but this. I mean, the book wasn't even his for god's sake!

Half an hour later, and Sherlock still absolutely refused to put back what he now referred to as 'his' book. It took a lot of effort on my part, and most of the shop supervisors, but eventually, he relented, after making me swear that I would buy it him for Christmas, which I had absolutely no intention of doing, but he believed me anyway. Huh, perhaps my acting skills were better than I thought.

This leads us to now, where I was dragging a ridiculously moody Sherlock along behind me, in a very bad mood.

Father Christmas was in the centre, on a pedestal, with a crowd of children around him, all laughing and smiling and altogether annoying.

Sherlock however, being Sherlock, had stopped, looking fascinated.

"Sherlock," I warned. I really didn't think I could take any more of his ridiculous behaviour.

He groaned, "im bored John, can't I just…"

"No, you cannot," oh lord when did I ever sign up to deal with this?

But we got distracted again in the form of Father Christmas.

"Now, what do you all want for Christmas?" he boomed at the children.

They all started shouting, as children do.

And I honestly didn't see what was coming.

"I want a nice juicy murder for Christmas, can you arrange that?" Sherlock suddenly shouted, so loud that everyone in the vicinity turned to look.

I could have died right there and then of embarrassment.

The silence that fell was the most awkward, icy, dumbfounded silence I had ever experience in my whole life.

And when it broke, I realised that Sherlock had gone, and I was suddenly attacked by a bunch of very angry parents, and there sobbing children. Santa himself looked as though he was about to start laughing, and to be honest, it would have been very funny if I hadn't been part of it. I spent the next hour of my life, apologising again and again to an endless stream of people and their children while trying desperately to explain that no, my lunatic flatmate was not a murderer, and no, he wasn't going to kill them all in the night (though I didn't seem to be fooling anyone) and wondered, not for the first time, why the hell I had ever got involved with Sherlock.

And then, I found Sherlock being escorted out of the building by some bloody policemen, who politely asked me to join them. Sherlock glanced at me, and I shot him a look that should have clearly said 'you're dead'.

It was very easy to say that, after we were dropped off at our flat by the policemen, it had been, and probably would always be, the worst Christmas shopping experience I had ever had, and I made a mental note never to take Sherlock shopping again. Even if my bloody life depended on it. It was _never _happening again.

Of course, I had been working up a huge yell at Sherlock, which, unfortunately, I never had chance to let loose, as a client was waiting in our flat.

Sherlock had been saved. But I took it out on him later by writing up my 'adventure' on my blog, and making him wear some antlers on Christmas day. If only for an hour, it had definitely been worth it. Mrs Hudson definitely wouldn't let him forget it in a hurry.

_A/n: I had fun writing this one XD, but let me know what you think! Reviews and ideas are much welcome! And happy Christmas! Xxx_


	5. Texts

Texts

_A/n: hope you all had a lovely Christmas! This one was inspired by Guest- Wave:_  
**_Or perhaps something about Sherlock talking to John even though he's away, and when he comes home there could be some misunderstandings_**  
_So yeah, i'm not sure it fits but I hope it's ok xxx_

'_Buzz buzz_'

I jumped violently, and Sarah turned to look at me quizzically. I smiled awkwardly and turned away, trying to force down the huge red blush that I could feel slowly creeping into my face.  
That was the third text I'd had in less that 5 seconds, and I was starting to get irritated. It was one thing in the surgery when I was treating a patient, but when I was in a meeting, with all my mangers and my phone keeps bloody vibrating like a bloody tuning fork in my front pocket, someone was going to notice sooner or later, Sarah already was.  
And I wasn't sure how I could explain that the reason why my jacket front kept buzzing like it was alive was because I had an annoyingly persistent pillock for a flat mate, who insisted on texting me every millisecond.  
An hour later, I managed to escape the meeting, my teeth clenched so tightly, I wondered whether I would be able to speak again, and feeling, in short, rather flustered and embarrassed. My phone had continued to buzz throughout the entirety of the meeting, leaving me literally clinging to my chair and wishing to high heaven that I had put it on silent instead of vibrate. Furiously, I pulled out my phone, leaving the building at high speed.  
I had no fewer that 30 texts from Sherlock. I growled through my teeth. That bastard.

John. SH

John. SH

John. SH

You said you would get me it John. SH

Why haven't you got it John? SH

John. SH

John. SH

Why aren't you answering John? SH

Where are you John? SH

John SH

Stop ignoring me. SH

John. SH

You said you would get me a pen John. SH

John SH

By this point I felt like throwing my phone at the wall. to think that he even took time to bloody sign his bloody name after each bloody text as well!  
And they continued, I started having to scroll down.

John. SH

John. SH

My temper started to boil.

Where are you John? SH

I was going to kill him.  
On the way home, my phone continued to buzz persistently, and I found I was grounding my teeth together furiously as I tried not to loose it. I picked up my phone, hand slightly shaking, and turned it off.

_I. Was. Going. To. Kill. Him._

I pounded up the stairs, and burst into the flat, looking around and breathing heavily.  
He was lying on the sofa, fingers steepled, phone clenched between them. Somehow, seeing that made me madder.  
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. Unfortunately for me, it just didn't work, and I found that I just couldn't keep it in any longer.  
"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WERE YOU PLAYING AT?" I yelled at the top of my voice, making him jump violently. I found that I was grateful for the use of my mouth again. I didn't think I would be able to un-clench my teeth again.  
He gave me a sideways glance, eyes sharp, as always; took in my breathless appearance. The red face, and clenched fists. He looked very calm.  
"John," he said, turning away and lethargically waving his hand at me, "have you got that pen?"  
If steam had been pouring out my ears, I really wouldn't be surprised. I stormed over to him, and pulled the phone out of his hands.  
"You... You bloody... You absolute... You... What the hell is wrong with you?!" I finally managed.  
He didn't react to my stuttered question, instead just watching me with narrowed eyes.  
"What?" he asked, in a bored monotone, as I slammed his phone with rather too much deliberate force on the coffee table.  
"You... Bloody texting me every bloody second while I was in a bloody important meeting with all my bloody managers... You made me look like a bloody idiot and I couldn't bloody focus and it's all. your. Bloody. Fault!" I hissed, not coming up for breath. He looked amused.  
"How many times did you swear in that sentence?"  
I gritted my teeth, "shut up," I managed.  
He smirked and I crossed my arms, "so what were you bloody texting me for?"  
"You just said to shut up," he remarked, closing his eyes.  
"Just. Answer. The question," I said, my temper reacting boiling point again.  
"This morning John, I asked you very politely to get me a pen and a notebook, so that I could write down some case notes. You didn't, and still haven't , complied,"  
"What do you mean?" I growled.  
He looked blank.  
"You said you would get me a pen John, you promised me, did you forget? "  
"YOU MEAN YOU TEXT ME 50 ODD TIES JUST TO GET A PEN?!"  
"It's not my fault you were gone when I came back from my room, " he said haughtily, "You said this morning you would get me a pen and notebook and you didn't,"  
I blinked.  
"What do you mean this morning?" I snapped, my voice returning abruptly back to normal.  
He looked at me as though I was some dirt on his shoe- actually scratch that, dirt on his shoe would be of some sort of interest to him- as if I was coffee without sugar.  
"Yes John, this morning, I was talking to you for at least an hour before in went to get dressed,"  
Oh lord, he was actually mental.  
"Sherlock," I sighed, "I got up to go to work this morning at 4.30, you weren't up,"  
His brows pulled together, "but-,"  
"You were talking to me when I wasn't here again weren't you?" I sighed.  
He sighed too, plainly irritated, "how many times are we going to have this conversation? I don't like repeating myself,"  
"How the hell can you not notice when I'm not here?" I spluttered, flabbergasted.  
He shrugged. I sighed in response.  
"Just, just don't ever do that again," I said firmly, irritated.  
"Do what?" He snapped.  
"Bloody text me when I'm in a bloody meeting!"  
"Well I don't know when you've got meetings do I?"  
"Just don't do it again, ok?"  
"Are you trying to get me to promise?"  
"If you see it like that," I crossed my arms.  
He sniffed, "like you promised to get me that book?"  
I groaned, "not that again! I thought you'd forgotten about that!"  
"I never forget, it's stored in my hard drive- long term,"  
I glared at him.  
"You're leading me off the subject- stop it," I gritted my teeth.  
"Can you just give me a pen?"  
"Get your own pen!" I seethed, storming to my bedroom. Honestly! If that git thought I was going to give him a pen after all the hassle I'd had, he was sadly mistaken.

_A/n: a review or two would be lovely xxx_


	6. New Years Eve

New Years Eve

_A/n: so a guest asked for a New Years chapter, and this is my attempt!_  
_Enjoy! X_

The morning of New Years Eve came with a bang.  
Literally, I woke to the sound of a bang. Loud, startling. Very loud.  
For a moment, I just lay in bed, a little confused and still very sleepy, remembering wearily the last time noises had awoken me. It wasn't a good memory.  
Then.

BANG!

I jumped violently.  
What. The. Hell?

BANG, BANG, BANG!

I sat up, alarmed. It was the gun!  
Oh Jesus Christ it was the bloody gun!  
In a sudden, adrenalin fuelled burst of movement, I swung out of bed, and nearly fell down the stairs in my haste to get to the room, the sounds of banging echoing in my ears.  
"what the bloody hell are you doing?" I yelled, though I knew already, storming into the lounge. Sherlock raised his head languidly, the gun held haphazardly in his right hand.  
"John," he acknowledged.

BANG.

The wall gained another bullet hole. I looked over, counted. 21 holes. My mouth dropped.  
Really?  
"Sherlock, that's enough," I made to grab the gun.

BANG.

I yelped and leapt back. The bullet narrowly missed me.  
"STOP IT!" I bellowed, suddenly at the end of my tether. It was 4,30 and I was shattered, and I really wasn't in the mood to put up with Sherlock bloody Holmes.  
"Bored," he muttered with a sigh, though he finally let go of the gun, "thanks for ruining my entertainment,"  
"Right, happy New Year to you too," I grumbled.

At 9.30, I got to the surgery, completely (already) shattered, and in a mood. Sherlock had already managed to do that. Really, that had to be a new record.  
I was just seeing to my first patient, when my office phone rang. The woman I was seeing, who suffered from severe anxiety, jumped half a mile, and stared at the phone like it was about to eat her.  
"I'm sorry, I just need to take this," I said as softly as I could. She nodded.  
"Dr Watson's Office?"  
"I forgot to say- Happy New Year,"  
It was Sherlock. What a surprise.  
I sighed, "it's New Years Eve, "  
"Close enough,"  
"Go away," I put the phone down.  
5 minutes later, it went again. I stared apologetically at the woman. She didn't look too happy. Really, it was hard enough taking history from her as it was, without the interruptions.  
"What?" I snapped.  
"I need to ask you a favour,"  
"Pee off," the phone was put down with a little too much force. I smiled awkwardly at the woman.  
And then again, exactly 5 minutes later.  
"Sherlock can you please just PISS OFF!" I hissed, under my breath, "I'm trying to do my job here,"  
"Umm," to my complete and utter horror, it was Sarah, "I'm sorry, was it a bad time to call?"  
I felt myself go red, which was awful. Why oh why did god hate me so much?  
"Bit of a bad time yeah, " I managed to croak out.  
Fortunately for me, Sarah started laughing.  
"I feel sorry for you sometimes,"  
"Yeah well, so do I,"

When I got home, it was 5.30, and I was even more shattered than before. But Sherlock hadn't finished with me yet.  
It was painfully clear to me that Sherlock had been experimenting, when I opened the door. The smell floating down the stairs was horrific, very nearly making me gag. I covered my nose with the top of my jumper, trying hard to keep breathing. It was difficult.  
"Bloody hell!" I choked, lurching through the flat to reach desperately for the window. I flung it open as far as it would go, and gulped in deep breaths, my whole head out the window.  
"What are you doing?" Sherlock's voice asked, amused.  
"Trying to breathe, what about you?" I said conversationally, looking down at the street below. A man walking past spotted me, and did a double take, looking rather alarmed. I nodded at him awkwardly. I suppose it wasn't everyday you saw someone's head sticking out a window, apparently talking to thin air.  
"Experimenting, obviously,"  
"Get rid of it, before I die of oxygen starvation,"  
"No,"  
"Get rid of it, before we both die of oxygen starvation,"  
"It's perfectly harmless,"  
"Sherlock for gods sake get rid of it!"  
"But it's my experiment!"  
And then off he went, on a whine about how important the bloody experiment was.  
I sighed. Time to bribe him.  
"Sherlock, if you get rid of it, I'll buy you that bumblebee book,"  
The silence that fell at my words was one that I could only describe as stunned.  
And suddenly, faster than I could have imagined, the smell was gone, followed by a loud crash.  
Thank god! I had started to get brain freeze. I ducked my head back in.  
Sherlock was standing there, doing a fantastic impersonation of an eager puppy, all glittering eyes and quivering limbs. Literally.  
Christ alive, how could anyone love a book so much? Especially about bumblebees. My mind wondered to the other 'favourites'. They ranged from books about body parts, to a rather vivid one called 'A guide to human decomposition', and 'The stray animal cookbook'.

Bumblebees? Really?

So Sherlock dragged me to the nearest book store, and made me buy the £50 book. And then proceeded to snatch the book straight out of the supervisors hands as soon as the money was exchanged. I smiled, apologised, and ran after Sherlock, who was already half way down the street with the book clutched tightly to his chest.

The evening came, and Mrs Hudson decided to join us for the countdown to New Year. Sherlock sat crouched in the corner, the book on his lap, enraptured by the book. Completely. At least it shut him up for a while.  
I was left to talk to Mrs Hudson about my New Years resolutions:

1. Never take Sherlock Christmas shopping  
2. Never take Sherlock's skull  
3. Buy milk every week, so there was no danger of it running out.

As the countdown started, Sherlock decided to celebrate too.

By setting fire to something in the kitchen.

I still don't know what it was, but by the time I'd finished wrestling him and putting it out using the 'precautionary' fire extinguisher, I'd missed the countdown.  
I gave Sherlock the dirtiest look I could muster, while Mrs Hudson, who was a little tipsy, laughed and cheered.  
"Happy New Year boys!" She cried.  
"Happy New Year," I said warily, though I smiled all the same.  
Sherlock may be the most irritating, childish person I'd ever met, but still, he was my best friend.  
And I wouldn't change him for the world.

Though my sentimental frame of mind lasted all but 30 seconds, which was how long it took Sherlock to get bored.

Nothing changed.

_A/n: happy new year guys! Keep the ideas coming, have fun, hope you enjoyed this chapter! A review or two would be lovely!  
Oh, and if you spot any spelling mistakes, don't hesitate to tell me, and I'll correct it as soon as I get the chance! I'm always wanting to make my work better! Xxx_


	7. Snow

Snow

_A/n: this one is inspired by a guest, Snowy:  
Some kind of snowball fight might be fun, maybe first they could be driving somewhere and get stuck in the snow.  
So I hope I did a good job! Xxx_

"I hate snow,"  
"I know,"  
"I hate snow,"  
"So you say,"  
"I hate snow,"  
"I _know_ Sherlock, I thought you hated repeating yourself?"  
We were driving down a deserted country road, and it had started to snow, which had automatically set Sherlock off.  
"Why are we here John?"  
I resisted the urge to slam my head down on the steering wheel for the umpteenth time. Jesus bloody Christ.  
"I _like_ snow, funnily enough, and I promised Harry I would go and see her in the holidays, and that is exactly what I am doing,"  
"I told you it was going to snow today, and that it was a bad day to go, it's supposed to get worse, what are we going to do if we get stuck?" Sherlock whined.  
"We won't get stuck," I scoffed, "it never snows that badly in England, we just end up with a centimetres worth and that's it, because England is bloody stupid,"  
"Balanced probability says it will snow badly,"  
"You mean _you_ say it will snow badly, because it gives you something to moan about, other than Anderson, I mean,"  
"No, it will, look at it, it's already getting worse!"  
"Sherlock shut up, or you're walking the rest of the way,"  
"But I don't know the way! Would you honestly leave me alone in the snow? Really?"  
"I will, I'm serious," I growled.  
I realised, to my intense annoyance, that Sherlock was right, and I had to switch the wipers to a faster mode. I glanced around, seeing that the snow was actually sticking to the ground and the road was getting more slippery by the minute. Why did Harry have to live in the middle of nowhere?  
Half an hour down the road, not without Sherlock complaining all the way, the snow got worse. Much worse.  
"I told you! I told you!" Sherlock said triumphantly.  
"It's just a small storm, it will pass, " I said, trying to sound confident. The wipers were going as fast as they could and it didn't seem to be able to clear the snow away fast enough. The tyres kept slipping on the small country road, which was freezing up fast, and everything was snow topped.  
"John, this is ridiculous!" Sherlock said loudly.  
"Sherlock, will you just shut up?"  
I finally realised that it was just not possible to drive anymore during the storm, pulled off the road, and trundled slowly into a small alcove.  
"Dammit," I growled. It _was_ getting worse, and Sherlock kept glaring at me.  
"I told you," he said, "we did get stuck, it has got worse, I _told_ you,"  
"Bloody hell!" I yelled, finally loosing my temper, "can't you keep your mouth shut, just for one bloody second?"  
He pouted at me. I sighed.  
"It will pass soon, we just need to think of something to do, while we're here,"  
"John, even if it does pass, the road conditions won't be suitable to drive on for much much longer than that,"  
"Well," I said as calmly as I could, "we'll just have to entertain ourselves then,"  
I turned off the engine, and the roaring of the heating suddenly stopped, leaving us in the quiet, with only the muffled sound of the snow hitting the screen to be heard.  
I reached for the door handle.  
"What are you doing?" Sherlock snapped.  
"Getting out of the car,"  
"I can see that, idiot, but what are you _doing_?"  
"Enjoying the snow," I yelled back, heading out into the white washed countryside. The snow was heavy and cold and wet and to be honest, it wasn't enjoyable, but it was better than being stuck in a car, getting bored to death.  
And the view was beautiful,  
It wasn't often that it snowed in Britain, but when it did, the usually plush, green, open land that spanned the horizon in front of me was covered in a white blanket of soft snow. It looked soft. It looked as though it was a blanket. I went to take a picture with my phone.

Smack.

Suddenly the back of my neck was absolutely freezing and soaking wet as something cold and hard collided with it. I gasped harshly, clapping my hand to the point of contact. I felt snow, clinging to the back of my collar.  
What the hell?  
I turned around and saw a snow topped Sherlock grinning at me.  
"Wh- did you just- did you-" I stammered, not being able to finish the sentence coherently. Apparently, the thought of Sherlock throwing snowballs of all things made my brain freeze up.  
He answered my question by revealing a large, and deadly looking snowball from behind his back, and hurling it at me.

Smack.

My vision suddenly went white, and snow stung my face. In fact, I think I inhaled some. It was bloody freezing!  
I spluttered, and started batting the snow off my nose, probably doing a good impression of a cat cleaning its face, and blinking rapidly to clear my vision.  
Sherlock was laughing.  
While it was refreshing, not to mention surprising, to see him something other than moody, I. was. Not. Amused.  
Right.  
I leant over quickly, and gathered some snow in my hand. Then I straightened up, and threw it at Sherlock.  
It hit him on his neck, and he gasped and started wriggling as the cold snow found its way underneath his scarf and down his collar, touching his bare skin. Bingo.  
The site of Sherlock wriggling with discomfort set me off straight away. I started laughing too.  
And then the war started. We were throwing snowballs at each other like little kids in a playground, and laughing just as hard.  
And when Sherlock was serious about something, he really was serious about it. The snowballs got bigger, and quite soon, I was pretty sure I was impersonating a human snowman, I was covered in that much snow.  
"You have awful aim!" I yelled at him, ducking quickly as a snowball headed for my face (he seemed to like aiming for my face).  
"No I don't!" He gathered some more quickly, "you're bad, not me,"  
"I was in the army, I need to be able to aim," I told him.  
Sherlock started running away, and I chased him, chucking a new snow ball at his back.  
And then Sherlock slipped on the ice, and landed spectacularly on his front, face-planting the snow with a soft thud.  
For a moment I couldn't do anything, for I was absolutely killing myself laughing, paralysed on the spot. His face reappeared from the head- shaped indent, scowling, the snow sticking to his eyebrows.  
"That was not funny," he rolled onto his back, a dishevelled black figure amongst a sea of white and grey.  
"Are ...you ...bloody ...serious?" I gasped, "that- was- freaking...hilarious!"  
I received another face-full of snow for this comment, and ended up having to wipe both snow and tears from my eyes.  
"I've had enough now," said Sherlock, looking very chagrined, though still not getting up. He looked a little winded actually. I lapsed into silent laughter again.  
"Shut up John, it's not funny,"  
"Oh come on!" I was just starting to have fun!  
"I've had enough,"  
"Just because you fell over,"  
"I could have been hurt!" He scowled indignantly.  
"Were you?"  
He readjusted his scarf, "no,"  
"Well then," I grinned down at him, "you started it in the first place anyway, I thought you hated snow,"  
"I do, I was bored, and it seemed like a good idea," he flapped his arms wide around him, clearing the snow.  
"It was, I managed to vent some of my frustration on you without any lasting damage," I giggled.  
He glared at me, "likewise,"  
An icy wind blew, and I started to shiver violently. Now we had stopped moving, it was bloody cold outside. At least it had finally stopped snowing, though, that was a bonus.  
I jumped up a down on the spot, and then noticed something. I stopped, and regarded him quizzically.  
"You look like an angel,"  
He blinked, looking a little worried about my sanity, "what?"  
I burst out laughing again, "don't be bloody stupid, I mean, you've made a snow angel with your arms, you have snow wings,"  
He shifted slightly, checking this statement, "oh,"  
He looked up at me, "what's a snow angel?"  
I stared at him, "You're joking,"  
He shook his head, "I don't think I've ever made a snow angel before,"  
"Christ," I shook my head, "did you have a childhood, seriously?"  
"In a manner of speaking,"  
"Did you ever make a snowman?"  
"Once, I think, it wasn't very good,"  
I sighed and shook my head, then moved to help him up. He took my hands and stood up slowly, brushing the snow off his coat, then he turned to look at the shape in the snow.  
"You're right, it does look like an angel, and it tells you a lot as well, you can see my arm span, my height, how long I stayed there..."  
"Yeah, very clever, now can we get in the car?"  
I got in, and turned the engine back on, letting the hot air warm my frozen fingers, "I told you the storm wouldn't last long,"  
"Hmph,"

Half an hour later, I tested the road again, and found it ok to drive on, if I drove very slowly that is. Then, while we were driving, I called Harry, and told that, because of the snow, it wasn't possible for me to see her. She didn't sound too bothered really, which I was happy about. I think we were both too wet and cold to want to anyway.  
I turned the car around the first chance I got, and we headed home.

_A/n: I hope it's ok, and you enjoyed it! A review or two would be wonderful! Keep up the ideas. And don't worry, I have a list of all the requests I've had so far, and I will write a chapter up on all of them! X_


	8. Sheet

Sheet

_A/n: I'm sensing the last chapter wasn't the best, so i'm sorry for that. I hope this one makes up for it! This one is inspired by guest Wave: **how about Sherlock in a**_ **_sheet_**.

_So I hope it's ok! Xxx_

I shuffled down the street, head ducked into my chest, eyes fixed permanently on the street, hoping to high heaven that no one saw us. I begged the lord that no one saw us. I couldn't even begin to imagine how embarrassing that would be.

I was being towed along by my flat mate. Nothing wrong with that. That was normal. I spent half my life getting dragged places by Sherlock.

Except that today, he was wearing nothing but a sheet.

A. Sheet.

And he was walking down the street as if it was the most normal thing in the world to go gallivanting around London in a bed sheet.

Of course this had happened before. In fact, Buckingham palace had been fortunate enough to see Sherlock nearly bloody lose the sheet all together. In front of non other than Mycroft and the Queens employer.

Me, knowing that Sherlock had absolutely nothing on underneath in that instance, had actually feared what would happen if he had lost it (which he had been dangerously close to doing) and had been paralysed with fear.

Today, I had no idea if he was wearing anything underneath or not, and to be perfectly honest, that made the whole matter so much worse.

Why the hell was he wearing a sheet? Last time he had just wanted to be awkward, showing his contempt to being taken hostage by some men dressed in black. Today, he didn't seem to be showing the usual signs. I wondered, not for the first time, if Sherlock actually was mad.

And then I saw a very familiar figure.

_Oh God! Jesus bloody Christ it's Mike Stamford! Shit. Don't look up. Don't. Look. Up. Shit._

I panicked, and tried to slow Sherlock down but the tall, sheet- wrapped, determined detective didn't seem to notice. Well that boosted my confidence. Cheers Sherlock. I glared at the back of his head. This was too much for me to take. There was no way in hell I wanted to run into Mike. Not today. Christ not today.

"John? Sherlock?"

I closed my eyes and scrunched them up tightly, wishing I could just vanish on the spot. I couldn't believe this. I tried to pinch myself, hoping everything that was happening was some sort of fever induced dream. No such luck.

_Christ he's coming over. Shit! I bloody hate you Sherlock. Why a sheet. Why. A. Sheet_?

"Hey! John! And umm, Sherlock,"

When I finally dared to look up, completely and utterly flustered beyond reason, Mike was in front of us, and his expression told me exactly what he thought.

He was absolutely dying to laugh.

"What are you guys up to?" he asked, looking Sherlock up and down. I cringed.

"We are going to a very important crime scene so we need to go, come on John," Sherlock said quickly, hitching up the sheet further, before walking off, expecting me to follow.

Mike turned to me, a huge grin all over his face.

"Why is he-?"

I shook my head, "don't ask... Please," I begged through clenched teeth.

He nodded, smirking, "is he wearing any-?"

Honestly, I thought I was going to die of embarrassment. The dreaded question...

"Just don't... Don't ask..." I repeated desperately.

And before he could say anymore, I ran off, sprinting over to Sherlock.

"Bye then!" Mike yelled, as we rounded the corner. I distinctly heard him burst into laughter and shrank into myself even more.

"I am going to kill you Sherlock," I muttered, pretty sure my face was like a tomato.

"You need to stop caring about what I'm doing, it doesn't affect you does it?"

"Yes it bloody well does," I seethed.

He was a lunatic. He was an absolute lunatic. I could call him much worse but I restrained myself.

I just wanted to get it over with.

_A/n: so I hope it was ok and a review or two would be lovely xxx_


	9. Drugged

Drugged

_A/n: I just want to say thank you so so much to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favourited my story so far, you are all the reason why I smile so much around college :)  
This one was inspired by Sherlockian082994, who asked for drugged Sherlock. I hope I did a good job! X_

I kicked open the door and immediately lost my balance; we collapsed in a tangle of limbs, coats and for some reason, Sherlocks scarf, which had managed to find its way around my arm, three times, on the floor.  
Me, being at the front of the tangle, took the brunt of the fall, landing painfully face first. And before I could do anything, Sherlock was on top of me, flopping like a rag doll.  
"Sherlock..." I gasped weakly, my voice coming out ridiculously muffled due to the fact that my head was sandwiched between the floor and Sherlocks head, and was slowly being suffocated by carpet, "Sherlock, can you...roll off?"  
I heard Sherlock take a deep breath, his nose in my hair.  
"Lynx...Africa," he stated solemnly. I rolled my eyes as much as I could. He was smelling my hair? Seriously? Though I suppose that was better than the incoherent mumbling he'd been doing last time he'd been drugged.  
"Sherlock..." I said as sternly as I could, "move, can you?"  
"I'm...sleepy," Sherlock mumbled haltingly, "lithium oxide,"  
I shook my head to try clear my ears out. Had he really just randomly shouted out _lithium oxide_?  
"What?" I attempted disbelievingly.  
"You're comfy, I need- need to sleep..." I felt him shift to get comfortable.  
On my back.  
Oh dear lord this was not good. Part of me was exasperated that Sherlock had called me '_comfy_', but a much bigger part of me absolutely horrified at the prospect of having to lie with my face pressed into the carpet until Sherlock slept off the drug. I just couldn't deal with having Sherlock fall asleep on top of me while I observed the carpet more thoroughly than I had in my entire life. God knows how long he would sleep for! At this disturbing thought, I managed to muster enough desperate energy to turn slightly, and gasped in deep breaths of air that didn't taste like carpet. Sherlock was jostled a little from my movements, but was now clenching the wool of my jumper as tightly as his drugged body would allow in order not to slip.  
God dammit.  
Why did he get himself drugged again? Idiot. He was never going to hear the end of it. I just hoped that Lestrade's video had gone viral. Just to teach him a lesson.  
"Sherlock, I need you to work with me here," I said, frustrated. With tremendous effort, I turned over completely, and suddenly he was lying beside me. His eyes were slightly unfocused and glassy.  
"Don't work...boring...carbon has an atomic number of 6," he told me, looking as serious as he could with dazed eyes. I couldn't help it, I giggled. I just couldn't get used to this.  
"Very good Sherlock," I sat up finally, ignoring the ache in my ribs, and hauled him to his feet. He stumbled as soon as he found his legs, and I found that I was supporting him as best I could whilst preying to high heaven that we wouldn't end up tumbling over again.  
"What are you doing?... Jawn..." Oh lord almighty he was even saying my name wrong now. I winced slightly. Jawn? _Jawn_? How the hell did my name translate to Jawn? Christ.  
"You need to get to bed Sherlock, sleep it all off,"  
"Sleep...what off?"  
"Sherlock..."  
"Mycroft used...used to call me Locky," he announced randomly.  
I froze, stunned into silence at his words.  
"Wait... What?" I asked, a huge grin spreading slowly across my face.  
He seemed to have realised somewhere what he had said, and shook his head to clear it, only making him look even more confused.  
"Locky?" I snickered, not being able to control myself. And there was me thinking Johnny was bad. He frowned, looking incredibly out of it.  
"I can't see Skull..." He said sadly, trying to move his head. Unfortunately his balance was less than zero, and he span wildly on the spot, teetering forward slightly. My grip on his arm tightened.  
"The skull is still there Sherlock," I said patiently, hauling him across the room, as he seemed to have given up walking. He let himself be dragged without further complaints, or thank god, random sentences.  
Finally, to my intense relief we reached his bed, and I guided him onto it gently. He flopped on, and lay there awkwardly.  
"Where's Jawn?"  
I cringed, hoping that he remembered none of this in the morning, I really didn't want to be christened Jawn for the rest of my life.  
I headed out and filled a small glass with water, then went back.  
"Sit up Sherlock,"  
"Sit on what? I don't like horses,"  
I suppressed another snicker, "just sit up, on the bed,"  
He obeyed, which surprised me. I presented the glass to him.  
"Drink," I ordered, using my military voice. Sherlock seemed to have a great deal of trouble focusing on the glass under his nose, staring at it intensely as if to work out its meaning.  
"It's water, Sherlock, just..." I sighed, "open your mouth,"  
He obeyed. Wow, I was on a roll! I pressed the rim of the glass to his mouth.  
"Drink ok?" I tipped the glass gently, and he started swallowing it carefully.  
At least that would get the drug out of his system more quickly. I couldn't give him anything else just because I had no idea what it was. Some strong medicine probably, seeing as our suspect had been a nurse, and knew their medicines. I just hoped it wasn't addictive. Not with Sherlock's track record.  
He finally finished the glass and I put it on the bedside cabinet; pushed him down carefully.  
"Just sleep now Sherlock ok? Rest,"  
"Sodium, magnesium, astatine, zinc, potassium, magnesium..." He mumbled sleepily, the words streaming into each other. I held back a laugh, and left him to it, pulling the door to.

5 hours later, I heard noises in Sherlock's room. He seemed to be doing a lot of groaning, and the sound of rustling bed sheets filled my ears. I rolled my eyes, and went to his bedroom to soothe him.  
"John!" Sherlock gasped as soon as he saw me, he tried unsuccessfully to untangle himself from the bed sheet and staggered ungainly over to me, "John what- what happened?"  
I looked at my rumpled, disgruntled, still confused flat mate and grinned. At least he wasn't calling me Jawn anymore.  
"You're okay, Sherlock, you got drugged- again, but it's wearing off slowly," I told him with a smile, grabbing hold of his arms so that he wouldn't injure himself, "how do you feel?"  
He assessed this question slowly, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. That was a good sign, he was fighting off the drowsiness.  
"Lethargic," he grumbled finally. Then his head snapped up again.  
"What happened to the supspect-agh- suspec-t?" He said, sounded distracted.  
"Lestrade got him, don't worry about that- oh and he also spent a long time videoing you, so don't be surprised if you see yourself on Youtube,"  
He didn't seem to take any notice of my words- his attention span was dwindling slowly- more than usual. He needed more sleep.  
"Ok, go back to bed for a bit, it hasn't worn off completely yet," I dragged him over to his bed, and he sank into the mattress without complaint.  
"John..."  
"I'll be here later," I said. And then paused. I just couldn't resist tacking it on at the end, "Locky,"  
He eyes suddenly focused again, and his head snapped up, "wha-?"  
I laughed, "nothing,"  
I left the room, but I definitely hadn't imagined the small pink blush that had crept into Sherlock's cheeks as he remembered his old nickname.  
Sometimes life was good.

_A/n: I hope you enjoyed it and a review or two would be wonderful xxx_


	10. Piggy Back

Piggy back

_A/n:whooo! Chapter 10 guys! I just want to say another huge thank you to all of you for reviewing my last chapter and the others too! honestly, they make my entire day! I hope you are all enjoying it.  
This one was, funnily enough, suggested by guest: piggybackridez who asked for Sherlock giving John a piggy back, and also by lilyxsnapex4eva, who asked for a sugar rush. I thought they tied in pretty well. I just hope I did a good job! X_

Sherlock had done an experiment. Something to do with the solubility of reducing sugars (or so he told me).  
The experiment started ok. The sugars were put in test tubes and he added a light blue solution, known as Benedict's test to check if they were reducing sugars, for apparently, some weren't.  
But then Sherlock decided to test the sweetness with a fresh batch of sugar. It was glucose syrup. Some sugars aren't very sweet, apparently, depending on their structure, he had told me, before rambling on about monosaccharides and polysaccharides.

He decided to try some.

He had a massive sugar rush.

And he was now completely and ridiculously hyper.  
All morning he had me running around after him, clearing up the mess he was making as he vented off his vast amounts of energy and trying desperately to get him to calm down. And failing.  
At 12.00, I was absolutely worn out, at the end of my tether and just wishing that Sherlock would calm down.  
I slouched, exhausted into my chair for the first time since he had taken the sugar. I ached. I guess I was getting just a teensy bit old.  
"John! John! John! Come over here John! John! John!" Sherlock's excited voice made me groan in exasperation.  
"Jesus Christ Sherlock," I grumbled completely worn down by this new, frazzled addition to Sherlock's personality, "What do you want now?"  
He bounded over to me, eyes sparkling madly, curls sticking out in all directions. He looked deranged almost.  
"You're so small!" he told me suddenly with a manic giggle. I gaped at him, not really comprehending what he said. The giggle was new too. I hoped it didn't stick. It made him sound delirious.  
"Sorry?" I stuttered.  
"You're like one of those small things in that film series you like- the one about rings,"  
Affronted, I glared at him, realising what he meant, "A hobbit?"  
"Yes, you're like a hobbit!" he grinned at me and I just didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I wasn't that small. Seriously.  
"I'm not... I'm not that... I'm sitting down that's why," I said belligerently, sticking my chin out in defiance, "and I think that's enough sugar for you," I added, pinching the bridge of my nose.  
"John the hobbit," Sherlock giggled, looking down at me far too condescendingly for my liking, "I could pick you up without much effort!" he gasped, the thought lighting up his wild eyes, "Can I pick you up John? Please, please, pleeeaaasssee?"  
I stared at him. He'd gone mad. My flat mate had officially gone mad. What was I going to do? He was calling me a hobbit. He wanted to pick me up. Jesus.  
"No,"  
He visibly deflated, like a balloon loosing air. He pouted.  
"Why not?"  
"I don't like being picked up, and especially not by you,"  
He launched towards me and I yelped in surprise, jumping to my feet, and skirting around him fearfully.  
He started advancing on me.  
"No Sherlock! I said- I said no!" I started to panic. He was giggling at me now, dear lord, it was like secondary school all over again. There was no way in hell I was getting picked up. I scrambled onto the sofa standing up so that I was taller than him. I made a mental note: Sherlock and sugar should never, ever be mixed.  
Ever.  
He looked up at me for a long time.  
And then.  
Suddenly I found myself on his back, clinging onto his shoulders for dear life as he jerked forward, away from the safety of the sofa. I wasn't even sure how I had got on his back.  
"What the- Sherlock!" I yelled, feeling incredibly belittled, "Sherlock put me down. Now! This is not funny Sherlock, I'm serious!" I glanced down- it seemed like such a long way. Oh Jesus no. I scrambled for a stronger hold on his thin shoulders as he carried me across the room, and started shouting abuse in his ear. I couldn't deal with this.  
"Put me down!" I yelled again. How could he seriously be giving me a piggy back? This was not natural. I couldn't deal with getting a piggy back from my mad, hyper, possibly dangerous flat mate.  
He hitched me up a little, and held onto my legs, ensuring that there was no way for me to get down unless he let me go. I didn't like this. He was using my...smallness...against me. It wasn't fair.  
"Put me down Sherlock, you've made your point, just out me down!"  
Sherlock decided now was the perfect moment to spin on the spot. I yelped. Jesus if he let go, and I went crashing, I would kill him. I buried my head into the crook of his neck and closed my eyes tightly. I felt dizzy.  
"Sherlock put me down. you bloody maniac," I cried, voice coming far more muffled than I had planned.  
"But this is fun!" He said lightly, paying no heed to my distress, "enjoy it John! It's funny!"  
"This is not funny!" I almost laughed. Sherlock sounded like a kid.  
He ignored me, and carried me across to the kitchen and back.  
"You're mad," I whispered, a little frightened, "you're absolutely insane,"  
"Oh you're just in a mood because I called you small," he scoffed.  
"Yes, Sherlock. I am. In case you didn't notice, I don't. Like. Being. Called. Small," I said, through clenched teeth, "at all,"  
"John the hobbit," I could basically hear him smirking.  
"Sherlock, if you don't put me down, I swear to god..."  
Suddenly, he gasped, cutting me off, "My experiment!"  
And that was it. A few seconds later and I was sprawled on my back, non too gracefully on the floor. Sherlock had turned his full attention to his test tubes, which had all turned a brick red colour.  
"So they're all reducing sugars..." He muttered, scrawling down a few notes.  
I sat up, seething.  
"You... You... You..." I stammered.  
And that was all I managed for the next half hour, too outraged to get my mouth working properly. Sherlock, content with the outcome if his experiment, and finally running low on sugar, sat down and smirked at me all night.  
"Giving you a piggy back was fun," he told me after a while, in which I glared daggers at him, "can I do it again?"  
"Don't you even dare," I snarled.  
He laughed.  
Why did I have to be small. Why? _Why_?

_A/n: a review or two would be nice. I'm not too sure about this one to be honest. Xxx_


	11. Hoard

**Hoard**

_A/n: this was inspired by Lady Of The Shard, who mentioned something about Sherlock hoarding. I'm a little worried to be honest. I hope it's ok. If not, I can always change it x_

It was strange to think that Sherlock hoarded. And when I say hoarded I don't mean a little collection of skulls or a handful of books or something, I actually mean a hoard. I would never have guessed that Sherlock, of all people would do such a thing.

We had, or I guess, Sherlock had, just solved a case. The killer had been caught, and handcuffed, and we were now following behind Lestrade.

"Thank god we found him," Lestrade was saying, looking pale and tired. I knew how he felt. The case had gone on for days, the killer had been very elusive, never leaving any clues, other that a small piece of red cloth next to his victims. And that never had any finger prints, "I was starting to give up on you,"

I smirked. Sherlock wouldn't like that.

"We would have found him in the end, it was all quite obvious," Sherlock snapped haughtily, "all we had to do was look at the links between each killing and predict where he was going to kill next, it just took longer than normal to find him, that's all,"

"Yeah, well, it's over now, I suppose I should thank you, right?" Lestrade stopped by the police car, turning to face us, "even though there are now five people dead,"

Sherlock shrugged, "I don't need a thank you," he said, sounding indifferent, "oh but I will have the cloth,"

There was a moment of complete silence, where Lestrade and I stared at each other, and then at Sherlock. I couldn't keep my mouth closed.

"The...cloth," Lestrade repeated dryly.

"Yes, the red cloth I need it for analysis," Sherlock said, taking on the condescending tone of a parent explaining something to a two year old. Lestrade visibly bristled.

"Why?" I asked, completely baffled by this strange request.

"I've just told you haven't I? Just give me the cloth Lestrade you're not going to need it anymore are you?" He snapped, looking irritated.

After a small argument about who gets to keep the cloth, a _cloth_ for gods sake, Sherlock won, and we went home in a good mood, Sherlock clutching the cloth with both hands. I couldn't help but stare. I hadn't fully closed my mouth since he had first asked for it.

Sitting in the armchair as I was now, I started to wonder why Sherlock had asked for it. It was strange. He hasn't done anything with it since we had returned, so what did he need it for?

"What to you need that cloth for?" I asked, echoing my thoughts.

"Hmm?"

"That bloody...stupid cloth, that you just went mad over, why did you want it?"

Sherlock's expression flickered from irritated to confused to completely emotionless in a matter of a few seconds. I blinked. He now looked, if I wasn't seeing things, really guilty.

Guilty? I shook my head to clear my thoughts.

"Sherlock..." I said, questioning.

His gaze shot from me, to the cupboard in the corner, then back to me again, but not so quick that I didn't see it. I got up and went over to the cupboard, wondering what on earth could cause Sherlock to look so shifty.

"No, John don't..." Sherlock began. But it was too late. I had opened the cupboard.

For a moment, I wondered whether there had been an explosion or something, for one minute I was standing there, gazing into the crowded depths, and the next minute I was on my back, literally buried, shoulder downwards in a load of junk, knocked over by the sheer, vast amount of...things...that were in it.

"Jesus. Bloody. Christ?" I stuttered, shock washing my mind blank, and my words coming out as a question. It had been like a bloody avalanche, how he even got the cupboard closed, I had no idea, "what the bloody hell is all this?"

Sherlock jumped up and came over, pulling me out of the pile, not saying anything. I stood up shakily, and stared down at the heap on the floor.

It was a huge assortment of random, very random, items. Amongst it I glimpsed a small, battered notebook, a metal pipe of some sort, a scarf, an old, weathered brick, a jacket, a purse, and a phone... A very familiar phone.

"Is that? Is that Irene Adler's phone?" I managed, disbelievingly.

"Ummm," was the only response I got. I couldn't comprehend what I was seeing. It was ridiculous. I squeezed my eyes shut, and opened them again. It was still there.

"Sherlock, you better explain this to me, because I am just. I don't get it," my voice was flat.

Sherlock looked incredibly chagrined, seemingly embarrassed by this discovery.

"It's..." He cleared his throat, "it's just some... Items, from certain cases that I like to be reminded of... If forget how big the collection was,"

I stared at him, my mouth practically hitting the floor. I don't think I could have opened it any wider.

"Are you serious?" I stated wryly," are you bloody serious?"

"Of course,"

I couldn't believe this. I squeezed my eyes together.

"Sherlock you have a brick. An old, dirty brick. You have a blood stained jacket. You have a..." I flailed, staring at the item that I found, "you have a _knife_!" I gaped at him, "is that why you wanted the cloth?"

"I like to keep memos of the interesting cases!" he argued, a few pink spots appearing on his face.

What the hell was I hearing? Was this bloody real?

"So you're sentimental?" I said disbelievingly.

He wrinkled his nose, "no,"

"Well what do you call this then Sherlock!" I cried, throwing my hand up in the air.

He thought for a moment.

"Items of interest,"

I almost laughed. Almost. It came out more like an exasperated groan.

"ok, Sherlock, we have to get rid of some of this," I picked up the knife between two fingers, holding it at arms length gingerly.

"No!" he looked absolutely scandalised, "John you can't!"

"Sherlock I have to!"

"You can't, you can't! They're mine! Put that back!" he wailed, groping for it.

I stared at him, disturbed by his childish behaviour.

"Sherlock, you have a knife," I said pointedly, " A _knife_! What the hell am I supposed to do with you? Can you imagine how unhygienic this is?"

"I need it, it's mine!"

"Does Lestrade know you have an illegal weapon?"

He sniffed, "he should do seeing as he gave it me,"

I rubbed my temple warily. I had a headache.

"Ok, enough Sherlock, let me make a deal with you,"

He frowned at me.

"I let you keep this bloody, disgusting thing," I waved it at him, grimacing, "And you promise me that you will stop collect 'items of interest' deal?"

He glared daggers at me, looking furious. Jesus you would have thought I had threatened to stop him going on cases. I raises my eyebrows.

"Deal?"

He sighed, "fine," he snapped, "but you can't touch these, at all. I will know if something goes missing, believe me,"

I shook my head, "Christ Sherlock you're such a bloody baby!"

"Stop talking," he sat down next to them, thrusting out his chin, challenging me with his gaze, "you can't touch them,"

I raised my hands in surrender, actually afraid for his mentality. He reminded me of something. Though I couldn't thing what.

"Fine,"

I dropped the knife back on to the pile and then left to wash my hand. It was disgusting. How could Sherlock keep stuff like that?

"Find a better home for them," I shouted, "I don't want to get attacked again,"

Thinking about it, god knows what he had in there. I shuddered. I might go and change my clothes...

_A/n: I hope it was ok! A review or two would be lovely, they make me smile xxx_


	12. Strawberries

Strawberries

_A/n: I'm sorry about the last chapter. I really am. If you have any comments about it, I am ready to take them and apologise. I'm sorry.  
Right, moving on, and hopefully this one is better. It was inspired by Pizza Pig who asked for grocery shopping. I think it's a little off the subject but, well, I just hope it's ok. X_

"I am sorry, I am so sorry," I stammered again and again, using my kind doctors voice as much as I could, seeing as I was shaking like a leaf in bad weather. The old woman looked like she about to go super nova, and that was definitely not something I wanted to stick around to watch.  
I helped her up, thrust a new tin of strawberries into the old woman's hands and scarpered before she could complain anymore, because people were watching, and immediately hid the open tin, that had splattered both the woman, and myself with syrupy, sticky stuff and disgusting soggy strawberries behind the cocoa pops in the cereal isle.  
I then propelled myself as far away as possible from the tinned food section, and found myself in the drinks isle.  
Christ, that was embarrassing. I was panting hard and I ran a hand though my hair. Where was Sherlock? He had disappeared miraculously before anyone could suspect him.  
A young girl spotted me, and burst into fits of raucious laughter. I gritted my teeth, reminding myself that she was just a kid and hurried to the men's toilets, where I started scrubbing vigorously at my arms. Then I caught site of myself in the mirror and nearly choked.  
I looked ridiculous. How the hell did I get strawberries in my hair? My _hair_! Strawberry juice was smeared up my left cheek and all down the front of my jumper. My favourite jumper! Really, out of the old lady and me, I had definitely gotten off the worst. At least I had helped the lady get clean first. I made a frugal attempt to get the strawberries out without getting my hair too wet. I looked like a lunatic. I wasn't even exaggerating.  
I glared up at the security camera, by the door, looking out to the corridor. Mycroft was probably amusing himself with the tape, for yes, he had been known to spy on me whilst I was shopping. He had probably seen the strawberry explosion. I wondered whether I could persuade him to give his little brother a good kick up the backside while he was at it.  
For this was Sherlock's fault. Everything that went even the _slightest_ bit wrong in my life had something to do with my flat mate. He was the common denominator. The link between all cases, the cause of it all. And today was no exception.  
Somehow managing the miracle of gritting my teeth and uttering swear words loudly at the same time, I pulled out my phone, and dialled Sherlocks number.  
"Yup,"  
I gaped, wondering for a moment whether I had the wrong number. I removed it from my ear and checked the number- definitely his. Since when did he say yup? Err...  
"Is that you Sherlock?"  
"Obviously,"  
"Right well get your skinny ass to the toilets now, before I kick it there,"  
"That's going to be difficult seeing as you are already there," he drawled, sounding bored.  
"Sherlock I am seriously not in the mood," I said, very surprised that my voice sounded deadly calm. Calm was good, I could deal with calm.  
I heard Sherlock sigh, "I'm bored John,"  
"Strange, I hadn't noticed," I hissed, sarcasm flowing thick. How the hell I had thought that taking Sherlock shopping, especially after the Christmas fiasco, had been a good idea, I will never know. Perhaps I was a bit delusional, "Just get over here,"  
"I am," he said, his voice coming from behind me, instead of the phone.  
I put down the phone and had to seriously restrain from punching him.  
"What the _hell_. We're you thinking?" I snapped instead, the calm completely disintegrating, "you can't just go around, harassing old bloody woman and leaving me to bloody clear up your mess!" I had to pause for breath. Damn. It ruined the effect, "how did you even get the bloody can open anyway?"  
He pursed his lips and said nothing.  
I rubbed at my face with a loud sigh, and I heard him chuckle.  
"You look sticky,"  
I froze. Lord, that was definitely a first for me. I don't think I have ever, in my whole life, been described as sticky before.  
Though, then again, I had never been covered in strawberries before. I shuddered.  
Why strawberries? Why couldn't it have been something dry, like corn flakes or bread?  
The worst thing was, I actually _felt_ sticky too. How humiliating.  
"Thank you for summing that up," I growled, plucking at the front of my jumper, feeling depressed. It was going to be a nightmare trying to get the stains out of it.  
"Are we nearly done John? I'm bored,"  
"Thank you for stating the obvious"  
"You don't need to keep thanking me,"  
I think I actually snarled.  
Christ, this wasn't good.  
I was being reduced to some primal being by my immensely irritating flatmate, this. was. not. good.  
"You better shut up, before I punch you, which I am dangerously close to doing," I hissed instead. He opened his mouth to retort, but we were interrupted.  
The door opened, and we both fell silent. A man came in, and froze, looking startled at our presence, obviously sensing that he had disturbed something. His eyes travelled up and down my strawberry covered figure and a smirk lifted his lips. I closed my eyes, resisting the urge to swear. I couldn't deal with this. I just...I couldn't. The man went off to do his business and I realised that the situation couldn't get more awkward. Here I was, looking 'sticky' half way through a heated rant at my flat mate, with a random guy fillings the silent room with noises that only made it worse. And what was worse still was that I was absolutely dying to laugh, and that would ruin everything.  
One thing was for sure however, and that was that I wanted to go home. Now. Right now. The rest of the shopping would have to wait until I looked more presentable.  
And when I had the courage to show my face in Tesco's again.  
I glared at Sherlock, hoping he read it as 'I'm going to kill you later' and stormed out of the toilet, trying to keep my head up high.  
"John! Where are you going John!" He followed me out of the toilets.  
"Home," I said, cringing at the way I sounded like an insolent teenager.  
"But we haven't finished shopping!" Sherlock shouted after me.  
"Sherlock, in case you haven't noticed, I am covered in bloody strawberries!" I shouted, far too loudly. The vicinity went very quiet. I heard a few giggles.  
I don't think I could have got any redder. Curse my stupid capillaries.  
I turned on my heel and left at top speed. I could feel many eyes on my back. I winced. Suddenly, buying milk didn't seem important at all. I just wanted a shower.

_A/n: I hope it was ok. Honestly. I really do. My readers are really important to me and I honestly panic at the thought of you not liking it. Let me know though. Don't try to save my feelings. If you don't like it, tell me how to improve.  
Also if you have any more ideas I would love to hear them! I'm looking to add some more to my list!  
A review or two would be lovely xxx_


	13. Rude Awakening

Rude Awakening

_A/n: thank you to everyone who reviewed my last chapter, I love you all *big hugs*. I hope everyone is enjoying it!  
This one is inspired by my friend, who asked me to do John getting a rude awakening by Sherlock. I hope you enjoy it! X_

_1.25 in the morning._  
"John! John I need to ask you something!"  
Getting shaken rudely awake by your caffeine hyper flat mate before getting even a single hours sleep resulted in my being disgruntled and grumpy. Very disgruntled and grumpy.  
"What the hell Sherlock, its half past bloody one in the morning," I mumbled, face half pressed into the pillow.  
"Technically its one twenty five but that's not important, I need to ask you something!"  
I sighed loudly, rolling over and seeing his blue eyes inches from mine, watching me closely, "is it very important?"  
Silence reined for at least a second. His gaze flickered.  
"Yes,"  
I stared at him blearily for a long time.  
"Piss off I'm tired," was my frosty response, before turning around and plunging my face into the soft pillow. It was uncomfortable, but it gave my 'official' exit more definition.

_1.45 in the morning_.  
" Jaaawwwn!" Sherlock moaned, poking at me impatiently; the feeling dragged me straight out of my sleep, until I was lying there, in bed.  
And then I remembered what he'd said. Jawn. Urgh.  
Even lying down I managed to cringe, recognising that god awful distortion of my name. God damnit my worst fears were being confirmed. He had remembered. It was like a bloody nightmare.  
Part of me hoped it was.  
"Go. Away," I moaned.  
Sherlock's poking became more and more persistent, and gradually my temper became shorter and shorter.  
How could one person be so annoying? I turned.  
"Sherlock can you just leave. Me . Alone!" I shouted. I did not take kindly to being rudely awakened twice in a matter of 15 minutes.  
"Jawn!"  
I winced, resisting the urge to cover my ears.  
"Don't call me that! That is not my name! It's not! I need to bloody sleep Sherlock, just go away!"  
I pulled the cover over my head and glared at the darkness. That bloody moron had woken me up again. He was like a bloody rooster.

_2.10 in the morning. (The same morning)._  
One minute, i was warm and comfy and lying fast asleep in my bed, dreaming about pillows, and the next minute I realised with a horrible lurch, that I was airborne. I startled awake, and clamoured for the bed sheets, feeling myself roll off with a finality I couldn't over come.  
I was taking the bed sheets with me.  
Crash.  
I hit the laminate floor with a painful thud, feeling the weight of my duvet come down on top.  
"-the hell?" I managed, a little shell shocked. I looked up.  
Sherlock was standing there, guilt etched into every line of his face. He had once foot half lifted, as though he had been about to make an escape.  
"Sherlock what-?" I began.  
And then it dawned on me.  
"You! It was. Jesus Christ it was bloody you!" I spluttered, furious. Sherlock opened his mouth, but I jumped up, and then he was gone faster that a whippet up a drainpipe. I heard the sound of him thundering down the stairs, and then a loud crash. He'd obviously slipped on his way down in his haste to run away from the angry John.  
I rubbed angrily at my face, trying to calm myself down. It seemed that Sherlock was doing everything in his power to make sure that I did not sleep that night. What the hell was wrong with him?  
I hauled at my duvet, got it tangled in my legs and fell backwards onto the floor again.  
Hissing a stream of swear words, I untangled myself and clambered stiffly on my bed, my arm hurt from how I had landed. My temper was slowly reaching boiling point. If Sherlock came in again, Lord, I didn't think I would be able to cope with it as calmly as I was now. When I was angry, and sleep deprived, calm wasn't really part of my dictionary.

_2.30 in the morning_.

Holy Jesus he was at it again. I heard the stairs creaking and the door opening slowly. It was like some sort of horror movie. Though instead of Frankenstein's monster or Dracula, it was my bloody flat mate.  
I lay there in trepidation, waiting for him to approach the bed. Hoping I could keep it together without cracking...

Poke.

Keep it together. Keep it together...

Poke.

Don't react. He will stop in a bit. Don't. React.

Poke.

...

Poke.

I snapped.  
"Jesus Sherlock what's so bloody important?" I shouted suddenly, batting his arm away violently. Sherlock jumped and looked surprised at my sudden resurfacing, but it didn't stop him.  
"What time to do get up usually?" He asked.  
I stared at him, hoping for Sherlock's sake (and my mental health's sake) that he was not serious. Because I was pretty sure I was about to explode on him. And then I would need to be scraped off the walls and ceiling and that wouldn't be very good for either of us.  
"What did you say?" I whispered, my voice low and deadly.  
"What time in the morning do you get up?" Sherlock was perfectly oblivious to my overheating thermostat. I suppose it was for the best really.  
Lord almighty, I'd never felt so infuriated in all my life. I just was not equipped to calmly deal with getting shaken awake, poked, prodded, pushed off my bed and tormented at THIS TIME IN THE BLOODY MORNING!  
I glared at him, fully aware that I was actually shaking with my effort not to start screaming at him.  
"Piss off," I told him again, before I resorted to more violent and extreme methods of extracting a certain lanky moron from my bedroom, "I need you to get out before I start yelling,"  
"But-,"  
"Sherlock, get out before I kick you,"  
He grinned at me, obviously, and rather dangerously, not taking me seriously. Big mistake really seeing as it was taking every ounce of my willpower not to pounce on him. I was incredibly grumpy and my temper did not stretch to five year old detectives with personal space issues. Especially not when I was supposed to be sleeping.  
"John..."  
"I'm warning you Sherlock, if you wake me up again tonight, I will... I will..." I flailed a little, then a thought struck me," I will move out!"  
Not that I had any intention of doing so, but it worked. He widened his eyes at me and apologised. Sherlock Holmes apologised to me.  
And then he left. I dropped my head back into the pillow and screamed a little to vent off my anger. Jesus, I was not a morning person at all. That was becoming apparent to me.  
Or perhaps it was lack of sleep.  
Or both.  
I think I had also developed a sensitivity on my arms. The thought of being poked again made me want to cry.  
After a while, spent de-heating, I managed to drift off slowly.

_A/n: a review or two would be lovely x If you have any ideas for future chapters that I can add to my list let me know! I hope you are enjoying it! Xxx_


	14. Getting Dressed

Getting Dressed

_A/n: so hi again! Thank you to everyone for reviewing last chapter, and to my new followers! I love you guys!  
This one was inspired by guest, who asked for Sherlock dressing John up for a case. Enjoy! X_

I stared in horror at the... The thing, that Sherlock was holding. Dread had settled in my stomach and I had to resist the urge to run away as far as possible, screaming.

That's what I felt like doing.  
"You're..." I had to stop to clear my throat. It seemed to be dis -functioning, "you're not serious, please tell me you are not serious,"  
Sherlock frowned at me, glancing at it, "what's wrong with it?"  
"What's wron-" I let out a scandalised noise that was a cross between a sob and a groan, "Sherlock I don't want- I don't like. I don't like suits much,"  
"It's for a case, John! This is important!"  
"If its so bloody important why don't you wear it?"  
"It's not my size!"  
I wanted to cry. I really wanted to cry. And I was a soldier. I didn't cry easily.  
But confronted with a striped suit, with the horrifying prospect of having to wear it all day and trying to look dignified around London, I wanted to sob my eyes out like a teenage kid and hide under the covers in my room. The thought made me shudder. It was really to do with bad experiences if I was honest. If the last time you had worn a suit ended in tears you wouldn't forget in a hurry either. And this was worse, it was incredibly... colourful. It honestly looked like Sherlock had picked it up from a circus or something.  
I shook my head vigorously, "no,"  
"Come on John! I need you to do this for me!" He moaned impatiently.  
"No way in hell,"  
I couldn't believe I was being bullied into wearing what looked like the rainbow from that Nian Cat video Greg had shown me once when we had gone for a drink down the pub. I wasn't wearing it. I refused. To wear it.  
"John, do you want to find the killer or not?" Sherlock demanded, shaking the suit vigorously. I glared at him.  
"Come on!"  
Sherlock pounced on me, pulling my jumper up over my head before I even had time to complain.  
"Sher- Sher-" I stammered, finding it difficult to speak. Apparently I had underestimated the lengths Sherlock would go to to make me wear the ghastly thing, "Sherlock!"  
I wrestled with him, but before I knew it the shirt was on, and he was buttoning it up.  
"I don't...I don't want..." I objected weakly, trying to push him away, "I don't like..."  
He pushed my arms through the jacket sleeves and I, having given up fighting, stood there limply, eyes rolled skywards, resigned to my fate as a human barbie doll.  
This resulting thought made me wince inwardly. The thought of my future being limited to Sherlock's living doll made me want to cry even more than the suit did. Jesus Christ, I hope I wasn't putting ideas into his head.  
I was shocked back to the present by the unmistakable sound of my trouser zipper coming down. I yelped and jumped away from Sherlock's hands, flapping at them violently. Holy Lord, talk about bloody personal space issues. There was no way he was even going near that area. I drew the _very_ pointed line at him taking my jumper off. And Christ that sounded so very wrong!  
"Sherlock, I am quite capable of getting dressed without your assistance," I hissed at him through my teeth, very aware that I was quite red in the cheeks. He mutely held up the matching trousers and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  
Oh _Bloody Mary_, this was the exact reason why I hated wearing suits. I resisted the urge to scream helplessly at the situation. Why me? Why? I looked like an absolutely idiot. I felt like an idiot too. I felt like I'd been squeezed into a monkey suit and wouldn't be able to get out of it.  
"Sherlock, I am never forgiving you for this," I mumbled, snatching the trousers out of his hands and stomping to the bathroom.  
"I'll buy you some jam!" He shouted after me.  
I dressed quickly, furiously, muttering a never ending stream of swear words under my breath. Then, head down, I hurried stiffly (literally) into the lounge again. God I hated suits. God I couldn't stand this. I didn't like it. I didn't like it _at all_.  
"Stop pouting, we need to go!" Sherlock shouted, as he headed down the stairs.  
"Don't talk to me,"  
I tried walking a little, and winced at the tightness of the trousers. Jesus bloody Christ. Sherlock could get away with this, but I couldn't. I really couldn't. I felt like I was a penguin, waddling everywhere. A rainbow penguin non the less. Jesus. Christ.  
I sighed, refusing to look in the mirror again, because I didn't want to see myself as a rainbow penguin, and followed Sherlock out the door.  
And so the humiliation began.

_A/n: I know it was short, Sorry! A review or two would be lovely! X_


	15. Not A Couple

Not a couple

_A/n: So on we go, and I really hope you're still enjoying it! Let me know your ideas, I'm starting to run a little dry.  
This one was inspired by guest, Wave, who asked for Sherlock making them seem like they're a couple without noticing. I know it's not exactly what you asked for but I hope I did a good job all the same! X_

"I am not talking to you," the man, our suspect, snarled, giving me the dirtiest look he could muster. Though, seeing as we had been in the same situation for half an hour or so, and he had repeated the same sentence far too many times for me to care, I just rolled my eyes and leaned forward on the desk.  
"We are trying to help you," I said firmly, "if there's something you know, you could save yourself a time in prison,"  
"Or worse," interjected Lestrade, who was standing passively by the door.  
"We just need..." I suddenly faltered as some movement caught my eye. My gaze flickered to the edge of the sofa.  
Sherlock's hand, which had been lying innocently on top of it, had moved a few inches closer to me. I could have sworn it.  
I shot him a quizzical look but he was busy gazing at the man, our suspect. I blinked, dismissing the movement and turned back to the man.  
"...need to find out what happened,"  
The suspect glared, "I'm not talking, I don't know anything, why do I have to keep repeating myself?" Great. Now he was getting worked up.  
"Ok, just calm d-..." I trailed off again, the words sticking to my tongue. I was _sure_ that I had just seen his hand move again. Perhaps I was going mad. I stared at it long and hard for a moment, as if trying to work out its motif. It was still again.  
After a moments silence, I turned away, and continued hesitantly.  
"Calm down, you know that we are..." Sherlock's hand distracted me again, creeping sneakily just a few centimetres closer along the edge of the sofa.  
I looked. It wasn't moving again. Christ it was like a bloody weeping angel.  
What the hell was going on?  
I ploughed on.  
"Trying to..." I had to pause again as it caught my eye, starting to get rather distracted. It seemed like Sherlock's hand was rendering me close to incoherent. Great.  
Out of the corner of my eye, when he thought I wasn't looking, I saw that Sherlock's hand was slowly scuttling its way over to me and had been for the past five minutes. So slowly that I hadn't noticed until recently.  
Suddenly, it didn't look so innocent anymore.  
"Errr," I found that my mind had gone blank. What had I been saying?  
The hand was creeping closer and closer and I squirmed slightly. What the hell was Sherlock doing? That hand had bad intentions.  
_Really_ bad intentions.  
Jesus Christ. Who could ever have thought that a hand was so frightening, as the pale spider of Sherlock's hands that was daringly making its way over to me. I never thought I would be scared of a hand. But I was.  
I found my words again, and continued with renewed haste, feeling completely on edge, though I wasn't concentrating at all. His hand was in my peripheral vision. It made me ridiculously nervous.  
"We need to know what..." suddenly my mind jammed up completely and I found that I was quite incapable of speech. My mouth worked silently.  
Sherlock's hand was messing with my hair.  
_Sherlocks hand was messing with my hair!_  
Oh Jesus Christ. Oh hell.  
My mind started flashing '**PANIC**' in red neon lights. What the bloody hell was going on?  
I let out the most pathetic squeak of a sound that I had ever heard myself utter, and inwardly cringed.  
The man was staring too now, wide eyes fixed in horror on Sherlocks hand, which was now slowly crawling its way down my neck, and across my shoulders. It was like a giant spider.  
"Sher-Sher-Sher-lock," I managed to stammer, panic completely overriding my system, all professionalism gone, "w-what...?" I realised I was breathing hard.  
"There," Sherlock's hand retracted again, and I stared at it in fear. Between two fingers, he held a small bit of fluff, that had obviously got lodged in my hair. I blinked.  
I found myself incapable of movement. Sherlock had officially gone mad.  
Lestrade was staring, looking very flushed and a little distracted. I couldn't bloody blame him to be honest. I was a more than a little disturbed myself.  
We all stared at him. The suspects eyes resembled flying saucers, which wasn't a visual I wanted to entertain for long.  
He stared back, looking nonplussed at our reactions.  
"What?" He asked immediately, frowning like a young child trying to figure out a complex jigsaw puzzle.  
"What. The. Hell. Was. That?" I gasped at him, trying incredibly hard not to start freaking out.  
"There was a bit of fluff in your hair," he shrugged.  
Lestrade was staring at _me_ now, and I felt blood rush to my cheeks. The room was so silent, you could probably cut through the air with a knife. As if the situation couldn't have got more awkward...  
"Are you two gay?" The suspect blurted, making me jump. He had been quiet for so long I had all but forgotten about him.  
"No!" I said immediately, realising for about the one hundredth time since I had met Sherlock that I really wasn't fooling anyone, even though it was the truth. Damn it. And it seemed like the more I insisted this fact, the worse the suspicions got. Perhaps I should just pack it in all together and ignore the issue until it went away.  
"I simply got some fluff out of his hair, how does that equate to being in a relationship?" Sherlock scoffed.  
Silence fell again.  
And there had been me thinking it couldn't have more awkward. It really just did. I closed my eyes and willed myself out of the room, floating to 221B where I could hide in my bedroom and forget the whole thing.  
No such luck.  
Sherlock glanced innocently at me. Or not so innocently as the case may be.  
"Not good?" He mumbled.  
"Bit not good yeah," I said quietly. Lestrade smirked, and I shot him a glare.  
After a moments silence, the suspect admitted everything he knew. Lestrade was happy, Sherlock was happy, and to be frank, I was just relieved to finally get out of the room, so that I could avoid Lestrade and no doubt the questions that would come with it.  
Sherlock also seemed to realise that a huge 'shouting at' was going to occur if he came so much as within a metre radius of me, and kept his distance. Quite wisely too. I didn't trust myself not to snap. Getting fluff out my hair did not qualify as a good excuse for nearly giving me a heart attack.  
We got back to the flat and I made tea. Sherlock still didn't come near me.  
"Promise me one thing Sherlock," I said finally, after refusing to speak to him for an hour, "Don't ever try to get fluff out my hair again, ok? Just...just tell me,"  
"Ok," Sherlock replied halfheartedly, not appearing to be listening very much.  
Of course I should have known better than to have said that really, and I spent the next few weeks regretting it. Because Sherlock now spent most of his free time, when he was not thinking about cases or complex puzzles, pointing out that I had something in my hair at every opportunity he got. The 'something's' ranged from leaves and fluff to stray hairs and black bits and it nearly drove me insane. Not to mention the fact that it just made everyone more suspicious that we were a couple.  
And we were not a couple. Not at all.  
One day, I really needed to give him a lesson in appropriate, adult, behaviour.

_A/n: a review or two would be lovely.  
Also, I want to know what you think of this other idea. What if I did some chapters in Sherlock's POV, talking about some of John's habits? I can't really think of any at the moment, but if you have any ideas I would love to hear them! Let me know! X_


	16. Sleepwalker

Sleepwalker

_A/n: thank you so much for all your beautiful reviews! They make me so happy! _

_So this is my first attempt at Sherlock's POV and it is inspired by a guest: John having sleepwalking and trying to hurt Sherlock because he thinks he is in the war._

_I hope it's ok! X_

I didn't want to sleep. Sleeping was boring. I wondered lazily what time it was, when John was going to wake up, how long it would take me approximately to go and get some water from the kitchen. I presumed by my dry mouth that it was thirst i was feeling, though generally I just ignored these feelings, it was too much work to ignore it now.

With a sigh I rolled off the sofa quietly. I heard the creaking of floor boards upstairs and wondered what John was doing. Surely he wasn't up yet? He had a tendency to sleep until god knows what time and leave me wallowing in boredom, getting ripped to pieces by my own mind.

I headed carefully over to the kitchen, my eyes fixed on the glass sitting in the end on the worktop.

And suddenly my vision and my thoughts was flung completely out of focus, and I found that instead of the glass on the worktop, I had a fantastic close up of the sofa. It seemed that I had got myself flown across the room, landing painfully on the floor, my face buried in the sofa, a crumpled heap of silk and confusion.

Something heavy had slammed into me.

Wild eyed, frightened, and unable to see a thing apart from the worn fabric, I quickly assessed what had happened.

Something small, mobile and strong had slammed into me.

Obviously.

And whatever it was smelt like tea and jumpers.

_Tea and jumpers? _

Conclusion: it was John.

_John? _

I did a double check.

"John?" I asked out loud hesitantly, voice muffled.

Smack.

John's fist found my ribs. I winced slightly. It seemed like army doctor was most displeased.

I struggled to move but he had pinned me down.

"John!" I gasped.

For one worrying moment I wondered what the hell I had done. Obviously something not good. What motif did John have to start attacking me when he should be asleep?

The pressure released and I took the opportunity to roll away from the sofa, and away from John, rubbing where my neck had been starting to hurt.

I couldn't believe that I was getting attacked by John.

"Get away!" John shouted at me, "we need to get behind the lines!"

I paused again. That sentence made no sense. What was I missing?

What was I missing? Frustration was unsettling. It made me angry.

"John?" I tried again.

I didn't know what to do really. What could I say?

God I actually think he was broken.

I turned fully, there was a scuffle, and, due to John's increasingly tight hold on my shirt, it took me longer than it should have to prize him off. Much to my embarrassment, he was quite a bit stronger than me.

I took my small chance to scan him fully. Dishevelled, eyes closed, rapidly moving eyes under his lids. Indicates REM cycle of sleep.

Oh.

_OH!_

Conclusion: He was sleepwalking.

Well, sleep _attacking_ if you ask me, but it's not as if he would remember knocking me sideways into the sofa and punching me whilst sleeping. Whatever he was dreaming about, I must have really, really made him mad.

John used that moment to launch on me again, much to my intense dismay, though this time, he seemed to take it to a new level.

He somehow managed to wrap his legs around my waist in an attempt to keep me in place and, while I sat completely and utterly stunned at the new appearance of a blonde haired octopus, got me in a ridiculously strong headlock.

Oh lord this was not good. My brain snapped into gear again and I tried desperately to detach him from me, with pitiful results.

"Don't do...can't do this..." John mumbled, slurred. He frowned.

To my horror, he started yanking at my head.

_What?_

I tried to move away again, but John was surprisingly heavy for such a small person. I struggled.

Meanwhile, John's attempts to pull my head off got increasingly vigorous. I swear to god, by the time this ended, I was probably going to end up with a six foot neck. I started wondering whether this sleepwalking issue was more concerning that I had originally thought. Especially as he seemed hell bent on committing murder.

I took hold of his arms and gently shook him awake. Or tried to, with the admittedly frightening experience of having my flatmate ripping my head off. Indeed, it was an incredibly unusual night.

"John," I murmured as calmly as I could. Another violent tug. I stifled a gasp. He frowned in his sleep again.

"John!" This was starting to get very uncomfortable. I felt like I was about to loose my head for real, and then what would I be good for?

As the situation got more serious, I quickly ran through the ways to wake a sleep walker without frightening them half to death.

Of course- a slap!

My hand stung, but suddenly everything stopped.

My head was still securely in place (thankfully) and John's eyes opened wide, mere inches from mine.

And then he realised what was happening and I had never seen him move so quickly in my entire life.

Off he shot, until he was standing, disorientated and frightened looking by the fireplace.

I sat up slowly, feeling my neck to make sure no damage had been done. He watched me.

"What happened?" he stammered. Then he paused, looking confused, "Why does my cheek hurt?" he touched the place where I had slapped him.

I decided to ignore that. I didn't fancy getting my head ripped off again, even by a more alert John.

"You were sleep walking," I said, deciding not to bring up anymore than that, "You fell on me," I sounded indignant.

"Christ," he rubbed at his face as he always did when he was stressed, "I'm sorry,"

I shrugged, and got up, dusting off my dressing gown, "no harm done,"

Well, that was not strictly true but he needn't know it. If I said anything about what really happened, he would be stammering apologies all day and that would be horrifyingly tedious for me.

My eyes snapped back to the glass on the worktop. My original destination.

I snatched it up before anything else could happen and filled it with water. Perfect.

John looked at me for a long time. Perhaps he realised that I wasn't being entirely honest. I swallowed my mouthful.

"Go back to sleep John, you look tired,"

"So do you," he retorted.

_True but only because I had to fight you off_, I thought wryly.

Instead I rolled my eyes, and waved him away impatiently.

John seemed to give up after that and retreated again to his bedroom. Safely away from me. I wondered whether I should invest in a lock on his bedroom door, to keep his subconsciousness from seeking to destroy me.

If it meant I was going to be safe too, I suppose it was worth it.

I rubbed my neck again, putting the glass down. All that because I wanted water.

I went back to the sofa, and lay down. What an eventful night.

And I still didn't know what time it was.

_A/n: I'm worried because Sherlock is pretty tricky to write as. Let me know what you think! A review or two would be lovely x _


	17. Locked

Locked

_A/n: I'm sorry for the long wait, I ran into a huge writers block that refused to let me write more than a single constructive sentence. Hopefully, this is ok! It took me several attempts. It's inspired by quite a few of my lovely reviewers, who all asked for John getting revenge. I hope it's ok! I hope I haven't disappointed you! X_

2 minutes, and 25 seconds.

I glared at the wall.

2 minutes. And 28 seconds.

I was still glaring at the wall.

2 minutes, 54 seconds.

55 seconds.

56 seconds.

This wasn't fair!

I turned to glare at the opposite wall.

Bored.

3.00 minutes.

My hand twitched slightly.

I wanted my gun. I wanted to smoke, I wanted to play the violin.

But they were all out in the front room.

And I was in my room.

I scrambled up from the bed, and went to the door, frowning at it. I wasn't in a very good mood.

"John!" I banged angrily on the door, "John this is not funny, let me out!"

I heard him laugh, and I ground my teeth together. My brain felt like it was about to implode.

"Sherlock it's been 5 minutes! _5 minutes_!" John shouted through the door incredulously.

"4 minutes and 27 seconds," I corrected furiously, "John, god dammit let me out! I don't like it!"

"Nope," John popped his lips on the p and that, for some reason, infuriated me even more, "Sherlock, you know why I'm doing this! You need some time out,"

"I am not a child John! For gods sake!" I pounded the door furiously, and then tried the door handle again, pulling angrily, feeling it restrict, and also hearing the clunk of the lock against the wood as it stopped the door.

Because John. Well John...

John had locked me in my room.

He had locked me. In my room.

_In my room_.

Room.

I pulled at my hair furiously.

A small closed space, with four walls and an unyielding door like I was in prison.

Trapped. Helpless. Completely and desperately bored out of my consciousness.

3 minutes, 11 seconds.

No. This wasn't fair. This. Wasn't. Fair.

Oh Jesus I was going to go mad. I was actually going to go mad. This was the pinnacle of not good. I didn't like it. I really didn't like it.

4 minutes, 32 seconds.

"John!" I shouted, "John, I swear..."

"Shouting isn't going to change anything," John called.

I slammed my head against the door.

It hurt.

I wasn't going to do that again in a hurry.

I heard John chuckle; I suddenly didn't know what to do with all the emotion I was feeling. It felt like anger. I felt the same way when I was around Anderson.

I swirled around, and stormed around the room, at least three times.

My eyes fell upon the stack of solved case files in the corner.

I picked up a paper clip from the stack, and began bending it out of shape.

Then I knelt down, and tried to pick the lock. I could do this. This was easy.

But the metal edge of the paper clip touched the unmistakable blunt end of the key.

It was still in the lock!

I went back to circling again, resisting the urge to swear. I didn't want to pick up John's bad habits.

3 times circling, and then I was back at the door again, finding I had a ridiculous lack of ideas, and I hated that too. In fact there was a list of things I was feeling particularly vengeful towards. I hated John for doing this to me. I hated the door. I hated the lock on the door. In fact, I hated everything at the moment.

"Joooohhhhhnnnn!" I moaned.

"6 minutes is no better than 5 minutes Sherlock, and did you really think I wouldn't think you wouldn't try to pick the lock?"

I groaned, and resisted the urge to head- butt the door again, instead, lying my head a bit more gently to the door. I heard the sound of the kettle being boiled. Oh hell, that was just unfair! Now that was torture. I suddenly wanted tea. I smacked the door with my fist.

God, I wanted tea.

I wanted to shoot something. I wanted tea. I wanted to play my violin. I wanted tea. I wanted to solve a case. I wanted tea. Anything. Anything, to get me out of the goddamn room.

"Can I have some tea?" I asked.

"No,"

"Can you let me out?"

"No,"

"Let me out John!"

"No,"

I bit my lip. I really, really, didn't want to do this.

God, I really didn't. Really. Really. Didn't. This meant I was giving in. Hopeless.

"Please?" I spat out, "Please John?"

There was a moments silence.

"No Sherlock, you've only been there 10 minutes,"

10 minutes was far too long to be away from my violin, or my gun, or my cigarettes, or tea.

Why did I want tea so badly?

I stalked away from the door, and curled up in the corner, glaring at the door, that remained solidly, irritatingly, un-moving.

I started thinking.

I needed to get out. I really needed to get out. I needed a plan. I hated feeling like a child, locked up. Sitting on a naughty step or some shit like that.

I refused.

Refused.

To sit on the naughty step.

It reminded me of the times when Mycroft had done the same thing. Confined me to my room because I had smashed a plant or something.

I stared at the wall. I had been staring at it so long I could remember the order of the first group of the Periodic Table, and that just really added insult to injury. Being reduced to memorising the Periodic Table wasn't good.

Perhaps bargaining in some way? Not jam. He still had loads of that left from the last time. Why did I have to offer so much.

I wanted tea so badly now it was almost an ache.

I thought back to what had happened. I had made a little more mess than had expected with a rather explosive experiment. And John had lost it. Really badly lost it.

And cutting a very long and tedious story short, involving a lot of swearing on John's part, I had ended up being bullied into my room.

Well, in detail, I had stormed into my room, and after a moment, realised that John was locking the door from the outside. Leaving me trapped inside.

I jumped up again, and circled my room. I was starting to really hate this room.

"Let me out John!" I yelled again, storming back to the door. This was so humiliating! How could I be held powerless by John, of all people.

"Give me one good reason why I should let you out," John shouted.

I sighed. I didn't want to say this either.

"I'm sorry," I muttered.

"Sorry? What?" John sounded amused, "What did you say Sherlock?"

I glared at the door. John was probably smirking at it in his chair, all smug and triumphant.

"I'm not saying it again, John," I hissed.

"No? Okay, you can stay in there then,"

"No! No! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Just let me out please!" I begged, wincing at every word I was saying.

But well, if it got me out of this room...

I heard the sound of creaking and I stilled, listening intently. Footsteps.

And then, the door opened.

I was starting at the smirking face of John, frozen to the spot.

"You didn't turn the lock," I said in an undertone.

His grin got even wider, and I sensed he was enjoying this little victory, making me the small one. I didn't like it. Not one bit.

"No, well, I unlocked it when you were sulking, you could have just walked out,"

He had just made me say sorry like that. That wasn't fair! That was cheating!

That just made everything more embarrassing for me.

I closed my eyes. I needed to calm down. After a moment frozen on the threshold, I went to my chair, drew my knees up to my chest, and glared out the window. I still wanted tea. But I wasn't about to ask John for any.

"Oh stop sulking," John said, laughing, "I let you out didn't I?"

I ignored that. In fact, I think I would probably focus on ignoring him for a while. I wondered whether I could steal the door key back from him. It wasn't my fault I hadn't realised he had stolen the key in the first place. It had been meant to give me privacy when I needed it, not to be used as a rather affective means of torture.

Plus I didn't like the group one elements anymore either.

Plus I still so very much wanted tea.

I wasn't making that mistake again.

_A/n: I really hope it's ok! A review or two would be lovely! X_


	18. The TV Remote

The TV Remote

_A/n: hello again my lovely people! This one is inspired by ITell, who asked for an epic battle for the remote control. I hope it's ok! Xxx_

I held out my hand, eyes closed.  
"Remote,"  
The complete lack of response made me open my eyes. Usually, John's response time ranged from about 2 minutes, when he was irritated, to 5 minutes, when he was angry.  
I waited 7 minutes to be sure.  
I looked over. John was watching the mindless detective crap. I wasn't having that.  
I waved my hand lethargically at him, "Remote John, this is crap,"  
"I'm watching, actually," he replied, mimicking my tone. The remote sat enticingly in his hand. It may as well have been screaming at me to pick it up.  
I turned back to the TV. Perhaps I was willing to let John have it for now.  
The so- called 'detectives' blundered about the easiest case I'd ever set eyes on in my life, and my annoyance started to grow. I don't think it had been more than 10 seconds.  
I couldn't watch it. It was too much to ask.  
I looked back again at the remote. I needed the remote.  
I made my attack, pouncing on top of him, hand reaching for the remote.  
John, who should have seen it coming, but strangely didn't, jumped so badly that the chair jumped too, and it started tipping slowly backwards.  
We stared at each other. And before either John or I could get our wits together, we realised that we were going over too. I guess I underestimated the impact my move would make.  
I burst into action again, and my hand found the remote, pulling it from John's hand. I let out a triumphant yell.  
John narrowed his eyes at me, and grabbed my hand, trying to prize it from my grip. We had a mini tug of war on the tilting chair.  
At that moment, the chair hit the ground and the force was more than I had anticipated. It had me gambolling over the top of John, my arms still locked in his grip.  
Off I went, my legs in the air, until John disappeared from my view and I was staring dazedly at the ceiling.  
But I still hadn't stopped. Somewhere in the whirl of colours I had been stuck in, John had let go of my arms, and the momentum didn't stop me there.  
No, I tumbled twice more into messy turns, until I ended up with my legs sprawled against the kitchen wall, and my head on the carpet.  
I had to blink a few times, feeling incredibly winded.  
John was laughing at me, and I realised that he had the remote again. I leapt up, and he was grinning at me. Of course he would find my making a complete fool of myself funny. To me, this was a serious issue. It was one that I had not anticipated me ending up gambolling across the room like some clown.  
I pouted at him, which was easier than usual seeing as my back hurt.  
"Please?" I tried.  
He shook his head.  
So I rugby tackled him to the sofa, so hard that the sofa moved a couple of inches, hitting the wall. John yelped in surprise.  
Up the remote went, spinning in the air, almost in slow motion. I moved off him and made to grab it, but something restricted my ankle, and I went slamming down the carpet, the noise reverberating around the flat.  
For a moment all I could think was...  
"Ow," I said, surprised myself. John sounded like he was lapsing in a fit of hysterics.  
So not funny.  
I kicked him out of my grip, and my foot collided with something hard. John's face I think.  
He hiccuped.  
I scrambled up again, determined not to loose this fight. I wanted that remote!  
John appeared to have hidden it behind his back. I picked up a pillow, and smacked him with it. It was immensely satisfying seeing as I wasn't too pleased with the carpet close up I had experienced. He spluttered.  
I smiled slightly, and whacked him again. Then, I reached out, and grabbed the remote.  
Yes!  
The tug of war started again, because John wouldn't let go.  
And then the TV started flashing, on off, channel to channel. The volume suddenly shot through the roof, making us both jump out of our skin.  
"It's cloudy with a chance of rain," boomed the TV.  
It would be more than rain if this didn't end soon.  
"And at 3.00 this afternoon, it should start to get pretty frosty-," click, and the sound of gun shots and police cars echoed around the room. John gave a particularly vicious tug and I sprawled forward.  
Click. Spanish?  
"You changed the language?" John yelled incredulously.  
"No!" I shouted, offended. I used the pillow again and pulled. The remote was finally in my hand, and I scarpered, moving as far away as possible from the threat that was currently John Watson.  
My mind chose that moment to remind me calmly that John was indeed an army doctor, who apparently had '_bad days_'. And I was in his way.  
Oh dear.  
Suddenly the room went very very quiet. I stared at John. And John stared back.  
"Shit!" Yelled the TV.  
Holy god that scared the crap out of me.  
John was more verbal with his surprise. I was surprised my ears hadn't started bleeding yet. Seriously, the amount of times either of us had jumped today must have been a record.  
"Sherlock turn the bloody volume down before we both go deaf!" John had to battle with the screams from the TV to be heard.  
I fumbled, turning it around and hammering the volume button. The noise ceased.  
Few.  
We watched each other from opposite ends of the room. Waiting for the other to make the first move for the remote.  
"What the bloody hell were you two doing?" Mrs Hudson was there, also incredibly vocal with her rage. I don't think I'd ever seen her look so red.  
"Umm," John stuttered.  
She stared around the room. The table was knocked over. The chair was tipped up. The sofa was at a ridiculous angle. It looked like a wild animal had been let loose.  
Or more effectively, two.  
"Is this about that bloody remote?" Dear Mrs Hudson. She was getting better at deducing.  
Her eyes fell on the remote. The small black plastic thing that had caused all of this.  
She didn't need a response. She knew.  
She stormed right over to me, and snatched it out of my hand. I couldn't do anything to stop her. It was Mrs Hudson! A sense of complete loss washed over me. I'd been gambolled, tripped, whacked and suffered intense noise. Now all for nothing.  
"Right," she turned the TV off, and stuffed the remote down her top, "neither of you two are getting this remote tonight and that's final! And you might not get it back until you start behaving like bloody grown ups!"  
Landlady indeed. If this wasn't motherly behaviour, I was a horse.  
Dejected, suddenly without the presence of Mrs Hudson or the remote, John and I stared wide eyed at each other.  
And then we started laughing.  
And couldn't stop.

_A/n: I hope you liked it! A review or two would be lovely xxxx_


	19. Jam

Jam

_A/n: hello everyone! Thank you for all my wonderful reviews last chapter, they made me so happy!  
This chapter is another one that has been suggested by a few of my followers, going along the lines of Sherlock messing with John's jam and suffering the consequences. So all I can say is have fun! X_

As soon as it started crackling, I knew.  
I knew that I had to get away as far as possible.  
I knew I had to cover my ears.  
And I knew I had to fear for my life for the rest of the day. Quite possibly go into hiding.  
I sprinted down the stairs, nearly falling in my haste to reach a safe distance.  
God I was so stupid! I should have known that it would end like this.  
God.  
I would probably be buried by dawn.  
That was a daunting prospect.  
"Sherlock, dear what are you doing?" Mrs Hudson smiled kindly at me, taking in my frozen expression, "what is it?"  
I opened my mouth to explain, but before I could a loud, ground shaking boom reverberated around the hall.  
Followed quickly by the unmistakable sound of something soft and wet splattering over every exposed surface. I paled.  
Mrs Hudson's smile quickly morphed into horror, and I winced under her accusing eye.  
"What was that?" She asked cautiously, regarding me warily.  
"An...umm..." I tried to dislodge a horrible lump in my throat, feeling a terrible sensation that my stomach was dropping like a stone, "an experiment?" I offered weakly.  
She shook her head, "sounds like a mess if you ask me,"  
It was going to be more than that if John woke up. I would never been seen alive again.  
Oh lord he was going to be so angry with me.  
I headed upstairs, dreading what I would find.  
The door opened, before I could open it.  
And I was face to face with a very red John Watson.  
A very red John Watson covered head to foot in strawberry jam.  
So much so that he looked like the walking incarnation of jam. Like a jam monster.  
It would have been very funny if the situation wasn't so serious.  
His ears were red.  
In fact, his whole face was turning red.  
I half expected to see steam coming out of his ears.  
Oh dear lord. I had always thought of John as small. But his rage seem to make him grow 10 foot. Perhaps that's how he managed to get 'captain'.  
"What. The. Hell. Did. You. Do?" John said, in a low deadly voice that seemed to ring louder than if he had shouted.  
I stepped into the flat, my feet squelching on the soggy, strawberry carpet.  
Everything.  
_Everything_.  
Was covered. The tables, chairs, walls, mirror, even Skull (which made me sad- strawberry didn't suit him) were all covers in jam.  
And worse. John's jam.  
And even worse, John was covered in John's jam.  
That made the whole situation very bad.  
I knew how John felt about his jam. There seemed to me some strange, but strong, human- flavoured conserve bond between them.  
I swallowed again. My stomach seemed to have gone completely, somewhere on the floor. I didn't know where it was.  
"Experiment," I said calmly. I had to look calm. I knew I was reaching my death penalty.  
"Jam, Sherlock," he sighed, "My. Jam,"  
He suddenly looked like a little dejected puppy, lost and alone. I stared at him, trying to deduce his feelings.  
"AND YOU USED ALL OF IT ON SOME STUPID EXPERIMENT THAT HAS NOW ENDED UP ON THE WALLS!" John suddenly yelled, making me jump about 6 foot in the air. Lord almighty, it seemed John had just exploded as fully as the jam jar had.  
"I-I- I-" I stammered.  
"YOU ARE A BLOODY NUTTER DO YOU KNOW THAT! MY JAM SHERLOCK, MY JAM! OUT OF ANYTHING!"  
On hind sight I should have woken him up. He had been sleeping in his arm chair, leaving me in peace to experiment.  
I should have woken him up. It would have spared his favourite jumper at least. And him.  
I should have saved Skull to.  
Poor Skull.  
He seemed to be regarding me disdainfully from his red smeared eye sockets.  
Suddenly I felt completely guilty about the whole thing.  
I sighed.  
"I'm sorry," I said quietly, partly to John, partly to Skull. They didn't deserve this.  
"You better bloody clear all this bloody mess up," John said, back to disheartened and dejected again, though I was treading carefully, waiting for the next explosion. There would definitely be one when he realised I'd used more than one jam jar from his 'not so secret' stash.  
I nodded.  
"My jam, my lovely jam," John muttered over and over again; the light had gone from his eyes. I shook my head, fearing a little for his sanity. Was it normal for normal people to have attachments to food? So much so that it caused them pain to see it over the walls instead of on toast?  
John certainly had some strange bond going on there. I half expected the jam to talk back, and say, 'blame Sherlock,' I some sticky, sweet voice.  
But of course, that was impossible. Jam didn't talk. Though John kept talking to it. Perhaps he was a bit delirious. I'd read about delirium. Perhaps he needed sleep.  
With a sigh, still waiting to get shouted at, I started cleaning.

_A/n: hope you enjoyed it! A review or two would be lovely! X_


	20. Doorway

Doorway

_A/n: so I had a wonderfully positive response on the follow up/ alternate ending idea and I will probably do some of those soon! I know I keep dumping ideas on you but I was wondering, would you like me to include these in this story, or make separate stories for each follow up/ alternate?  
Anyway, here's your next chapter, inspired by my friend. I hope you all enjoy it! X_

"Sherlock!" John yelled, breaking the wonderful silence I had been lying in. He sounded panicked, and, strangely, scared.  
John , scared? John was never scared. Of anything.  
I opened my eyes.  
"What?" I shouted back.  
"Come up here bloody quickly there's a bloody situation!" oh dear, swearing again. He always swore when he was stressed.  
What had I done now? I sighed and hauled myself upstairs.  
And stopped dead, eyebrows quirked, greeted with a strange sight.  
He was stood, frozen in the doorway, like a statue, immobile. He looked like he had been about to head downstairs, but something had stopped him.  
His eyes were wide and his face was pale and he seemed incapable of moving anywhere. I wondered why. I'd never seen him act like this before. It was weird, and not something I was used to. I scanned the door. Had he spotted something?  
"John... Wha-?" I began quizzically.  
He stopped me by pointing, down at the ground, frantically.  
"There, bloody there for god bloody sake!"  
There, sitting belligerently on the carpet in front of John's doorway, was a spider.  
A. Spider.  
"A spider?" I echoed dully, looking up and wondering whether I was assessing the situation correctly. I frankly couldn't see what obstacle a spider could make to John, but there we go. I looked again. The spider was definitely there.  
"Yes a bloody spider, a great big, bloody stupid spider," John seemed to be getting paler and paler by the second, his eyes fixed in horror on the eight legged insect which was regarding him warily from its position.  
I stared at it too, trying and failing to understand why it caused John so much horror.  
"What's wrong with the spider?"  
"It's in the bloody way,"  
"No it's not. Just move over it,"  
"I can't," he squeaked.  
John Watson actually squeaked. I couldn't help the sly smile that spread across my face. I found this quite entertaining. Especially if it caused John to venture into octaves previously unknown to him.  
"John," I said, grinning more widely now, "it's a spider, its perfectly harmless,"  
He shuddered, "it's huge,"  
I was learning quite a lot about John today.  
The spider in question decided that that was the perfect time to move. It took a tiny step forward, legs bending carefully.  
"Oh Christ," John yelped, shooting backwards into the dark of his room. I'd never seen him move so fast in my life.  
The spider turned in John's direction, who's silhouette I saw lurking by his bed.  
"Sherlock..." John said furiously, his voice actually quivering slightly, "move the damn thing,"  
But I was enjoying myself far too much to move it just yet.  
After a moments hesitation, spent feeling the ground around it, the spider scuttled forwards, deciding, quite unwittingly, to investigate John further. Off it went, legs flying, aiming straight for John's feet.  
A few seconds later, much to my intense surprise and amusement, John was on top of his cabinet, pulling his legs up to his chest and yelling a stream of swear words into the darkness like his life was in danger.  
I grinned at the spider.  
"For god's sake Sherlock just get rid of the bloody thing would you?" He cried, so pale his lips were white.  
I dwindled in the doorway watching him with amused eyes.  
"John it can't hurt you, no British spiders are toxic,"  
"I don't bloody care!"  
The spider stopped again, right by the edge of the cabinet. It appeared to be teasing John. And John looked terrified.  
I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Captain doctor John Watson, who had gone to war, seen countless soldiers dying and shot, got strapped to a bomb and remained calm, shot a serial killer through a window without flinching once, was scared of a spider. I wondered for a moment if I was still in my mind palace and was starting to hallucinate.  
"Sherlock for god bloody sake, if you don't bloody get rid of that bloody thing I will bloody kill you!"  
I opened my mouth to retort, but closed it again. Perhaps I'd made John suffer a little longer than necessary.  
I strode into the room and scooped up the spider with my bare hands, feeling it twitch and clamber in its little cage. John was staring at me with so much revulsion, you would think I was some sort of disease. Then, I carried it carefully to the window, opened it a crack, and tossed it out.  
"There, all done," I dusted off my hands and grinned at John, who was cautiously lowering his legs.  
"Thank you," he huffed, standing carefully and trying to regain his dignity. Unfortunately for him, this memory was something I would _never_ be deleting. The thought of John being chased by something 10 times smaller than him was bloody hilarious, and now I'd said it.  
Dignified really wasn't a word I was going to use for him anymore.  
"Are you ok?" I asked through my smirk, realising that perhaps I should ask him.  
He nodded, tight-lipped, "need a cuppa though," he murmured quietly, and off he went, down the stairs.  
A few seconds later I received a text, my phone buzzing in my pocket.

**Would you like me to send you the recording?  
MH**

I never thought I'd see the day I agreed with my brother.

_A/n: a review or two would be wonderful xxx_


	21. Glass

Glass

_A/n: the last chapter, I believe, stopped some people from reviewing as they had replied to my authors note beforehand. I'm sorry about that. I can promise you there will be no more irritating authors notes taking a chapters space. It's really not worth it._

_Anyway, on we go! Xxx_

Tap.

I opened my eyes. The sound was loud and ringing in the silence. It made me uncomfortable. I didn't like it.

Tap.

I frowned at the ceiling.

Tap. Tap. Tap...

...

Tap.

This was starting to get rather irritating.

Tap. Tap.

Tap.

... _Don't. You. Dare...  
_

...

Tap.

I clenched my jaw. I was not going to get worked up by...

Tap.

"John, for gods sake!" I exploded, not being able to keep it together anymore.

John looked up, startled.

"What?"

I glared somewhat cautiously at the glass he was holding in his right hand, and the fingers of his left hand positioned around the rim.

"Stop that ridiculous tapping!"

He frowned at me, confused, his fingers tracing the edge of the glass, "Sorry, I didn't think you got worked up about things like that,"

I snorted, my temper rather much shorter than usual. I felt like I was on a short fuse.

"I don't get _worked up_," I retorted snappishly.

He raised his eyebrows.

"Right, ok,"

He turned away.

I watched him for a very long time, eyes narrowed on the glass in his hands. I was frightened for my own sanity really, because reacting like this wasn't my normal behaviour. I wondered whether John's temper was rubbing off on me.

After a moment, I went back to my bumble bee book. It was incredibly fascinating. I enjoyed reading it and was glad that John had brought it for me. I wondered if I could...

Tap.

"Jesus Christ John!" I yelled. The noise was slowly driving me up the wall. Any moment now and I would be climbing the ceiling, "put that bloody glass down!"

I had reverted to swearing again, and that was something I had always hated doing. But really, I couldn't stand that stupid noise!

John was smirking at me.

"Looks like you do get worked up after all," he mused. I knew that voice.

I knew what was coming.

"N-," I began desperately.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tappety tap.

I resisted the urge to plug my fingers in my ears. Oh god, oh god, _oh god_.

I was afraid of going insane. The noise seemed to echo around my head

Tap. Tap. Tap tap tap.

"John!" I yelled. My mind seemed to be going in overdrive. I couldn't think, "John stop it!"

Tap. Tap. Tappety tap.

John was going to pay for this! My jaw was clenched so tightly it almost hurt. This wasn't fun.

"Stop it!"

Quite soon the tapping morphed-,

**Tappety tap. Tap tap. Tappety tap. Tap tap. **

-Into what was unmistakably John's poor rendition of The Thieving Magpie. A song that I absolutely detested. It needed to be damned to hell.

Oh dear lord. Did he want to kill me?

I glared at him, drawing my knees up to my chest.

"I hate you," I told him.

**Tappety tap. Tap tap. Tappety tap. Tap tap. Tappy tappy tappy...**

I couldn't control myself anymore. I jumped up and tipped the glass over, so quickly, John had no chance to react.

A few seconds later, the tapping had, blissfully, stopped, I was flushed and agitated, and John had a very wet lap.

Then, I preceded to stomp to my room, (double checking that I had the key) and slammed the door shut.

Unfortunately for me I had to suffer John's continuous yelling, apparently his jeans were ruined, and a continuing replay of The Thieving Magpie in my head because for some reason, I couldn't delete it, for the rest of the night.

I swear I was going mad. That wasn't a comforting feeling.

_A/n: a review or two would be lovely xxx oh, and I need some more ideas for Sherlock POV chapters so if you have any let me know! xxx_


	22. Flu

Flu

_A/n: I lovely long chapter coming up! Thank you all for you're wonderful encouraging, reviews they really make my day! This one is inspired by gforcejedi:** Could you do one with Sherlock getting ill (not drugged, but like the flu) from his POV, and maybe Molly could be there?**  
**Thanks!**  
So I hope I did a good job and enjoy! Xxx_

I didn't feel very well.  
I didn't feel very well at all.  
It had come on so suddenly.  
I blinked to clear my head and my nose twitched.  
I sneezed. Violently.  
Very violently. It seemed to ring around the lab.  
Molly jumped and looked up.  
"Are you... Um. Are you. Okay?"  
"I'm-," I had to stop because I was sneezing again, "I'm fine,"  
I was suddenly overcome with a fit of sneezes. One after the other. I counted in my head. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.  
I raised my head, eyes watering so badly I could hardly :  
"APOOO!"  
Oh dear lord. What sort of noise was that?! It had to have been the most ridiculous noise I had ever had the misfortune of making. God. And it echoed so loudly around the room I could hear it for longer than I wanted to. Shouting out again and again reminding me of my shame. _Apooo, apooo, apooo..._  
"Umm, do you want a tissue?" Molly asked, looking as though she was about to burst out laughing at any moment. I couldn't recall ever feeling so embarrassed in my entire life. Or sneezing like this before.  
Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen.  
At least the noises were more sensible. Apooo really didn't do me any favours and was a noise I wished with my whole heart and soul that I never made again.  
Oh dear. I started feeling ridiculously tired too, which really didn't help matters. Molly handed me a box of tissues. I blew my nose carefully, and wiped my stinging eyes.  
"Do you- umm... Shall I call John?" Molly asked timidly, very red in the face from the effort not to laugh. She was making a valiant effort at least.  
I regarded the statement carefully. Calling John meant that I was about to get doctored. A lot. Which meant lots of irritation on my part and no cases. The thought was horrifying and I shook my head, but that stopped quickly. I felt dizzy.  
Molly flitted out of the room, and I started sneezing again. God damn. I was never going to be able to work like this!  
"You're not well Sherlock," Molly said sternly (which was strange). I hadn't noticed her come back into the room.  
She was carrying a white thermometer. Oh lord here we go. I gave it a nasty look. I didn't like it.  
"Can I take your temperature?" Molly asked shyly, using the same voice she used when she asked if I wanted coffee. I scowled and shook my head.  
"Why?"  
"I'm not ill, I'm-" goddamn this ridiculous sneezing! It completely ruined my statement, "I'm fine," I finished stiffly.  
I had completely forgotten that, in a way, Molly was also a doctor.  
I blew my nose again, then sat down. No matter what I said, I felt far from fine. This was exactly the reason why I hated being human. It stopped me from doing my work.  
Suddenly something cold and hard was jammed in my ear. I yelped, squirming, most displeased. I heard a beep. The feeling was gone.  
"What was that?" I demanded.  
Molly was smiling lightly, though still looking a little frightened. She held up a lethal looking instrument.  
"Thermometer used for young children who won't stay still," she told me, "and you have a huge temperature by the way. 39 degrees c this is reading,"  
I glared at it. I was surprised children put up with it. My ear still hurt where she had rammed it there.  
"Sorry," she added. She wrapped my coat around my shoulders carefully, as if that would help me get warm.  
I ignored her. I was being treated like a child and I didn't appreciate it.  
"You should go home," Molly said, "I can watch your experiment,"  
"No," I said stoically. I was not listening to Molly. John was the only one I listened too. And that was only sometimes, "I'm not going,"  
"Yes you are," good lord, speak of the devil and the devil shall appear.  
John was there in the doorway, frowning at me. I shot an accusing glance at Molly, who bit her lip nervously.  
I groaned and buried my face in my hands. My throat was sore. My nose hurt. My ear hurt, I had suffered intense embarrassment and I was being bullied. God damn the world.  
"He reads 39 degrees," Molly told John.  
"Jesus," John's hands were on my shoulders, "Sherlock, we're going home now, and you're not going to argue,"  
"I don't like- I don't want-," I muttered furiously, as John dragged me out the room. I gazed back across it, a huge feeling of loss sweeping over me as I gazed at my experiment left abandoned on the desk. This was all Molly's fault. I made sure she knew by watching her accusingly all the way out the door.  
Still, John was dragging me, hands on my coat.  
"John," I whined, batting his hand away, "I am fine!"  
"Sherlock you have a temperature through the roof, you're voice is nasal from a blocked nose and Molly said you sneezed 25 times in a space of 15 minutes,"  
"No, I actually sneezed 14 times," I retorted haughtily.  
My body decided that was the best time to sneeze again. Off I went, until I was clutching John for support.  
"Ow," I mumbled, feeling my stinging nose warily. John smirked a little, even though his eyes were worried.  
"Yeah Sherlock you're great," he said rolling his eyes, "and it's just gonna get worse,"  
As if I needed to know what fate I was condemned to for the next week or so.  
We got back to Baker Street and I had a nose bleed. John sat me down on the kitchen table, gave me some tissue so I could stem the flow, and checked my forehead. Again.  
"Are you feeling any tiredness or aching in the muscles?" He mumbled, now in full doctor mode.  
"I'm fine," I grumbled, wiping my nose with a fresh lot of tissue. It felt sticky.  
"No you're not Sherlock, can you please work with me here? I'm trying to help!" He was looking irritated now and I realised with annoyance that I was going to have to work with him. He removed his hand from my head.  
"So I ask you again," John said angrily, "are you feeling any tiredness or aching muscles?"  
"I suppose," I muttered.  
"Any headaches since you started sneezing?"  
"A little,"  
"Have you got a sore throat or chesty cough?"  
"Sore throat," I said, "at the moment," I added.  
"Right. Thank you," John nodded, "sounds like the flu to me,"  
"Oh hurray," I sighed sarcastically.  
"I'll make you a cuppa ok?"  
Suddenly a blanket was draped around me, and I tried weakly to push it off. It didn't work.  
Since I'd sat down, everything seemed to ache much more.  
"Sherlock," John reprimanded sternly, watching me struggle, "keep the blanket on,"  
I glanced at it from over my shoulder grumpily. It was bright red, with yellow happy faces stuck all over it.

_Smiley faces_? Really? I stared at them. They seemed to be mocking me. I felt myself go slightly red.  
"What is with this ridiculous blanket?" I grumbled at John, "why has it got all these smiley faces?"  
"I've had that blanket since I was a kid leave the smiley faces alone,"  
"Why do I have to wear it? I look stupid," I turned my nose away from the smiley on my shoulder.  
"You're getting chills and the blanket will help keep you warm,"  
As if on cue, I shuddered. John pressed a hot mug of tea in my hands, "I told you so,"  
I glared at him half heartedly.  
It felt as if many eyes were watching me. Even if they were only black dots.  
"John the smiley faces are watching me. I don't like them," I complained.  
"The smiley faces are a pattern Sherlock, they're not alive. They cannot watch you," John sighed, though he was smiling quite a lot. I glared at him again.  
"When will I get better?" I demanded.  
John crossed his arms and leant back on the kitchen work surface.  
"Ummm, your symptoms will peak after two to three days, but you will start feeling better after five to eight days, depending on the person," he eyed me warily, "seeing as you don't eat or sleep much anyways I'm bargaining on the eight day period,"  
"Brilliant," I rubbed at my face. Behind my closed eyes, the smiley faces kept staring at me. I think I was being haunted by them now.  
"Have some paracetamol," John said calmly.  
"I'm not a child John,"  
"You act like one," he retorted.  
I sipped at the tea, it was hot and it burnt my already sore throat. I winced.  
"Come on," John guided me to the sofa. I glanced at myself in the mirror.  
I looked grumpy and bad tempered and ridiculous. Smiley faces were all around me. I winced at my reflection too. I was really going to have to debug the place soon. I couldn't stand the thought of Mycroft watching me, amused, while I sat like a lemon in a red blanket for eight days.  
"I don't like this," I moaned, as he sat me on the sofa.  
"No one does Sherlock, but the best thing you can do is stay here, keep warm, take paracetamol and rest," he handed me the tablets. I tried to glare, but it failed when I started coughing.  
"Thats boring," I finished weakly.  
"You'll be fine," John said with a grin, "I'll look after you. I'll even get some cases for you to work on if you like,"  
I tried a smile, "thank you John,"  
I closed my eyes for a little while, for I was feelings very tired. The silence was long and comforting and I actually felt like sleeping for once.  
Until...  
"APOOO!"  
My eyes flung open and I sat up furiously, hearing what was obviously a recording of my horrendous sneeze. I'd opened my eyes quick enough just to see John's heel vanish out the door.  
"JOHN!" I yelled, blushing crimson violently and hearing him roaring with laughter on the stairs, out of sight and reach, "don't you dare show anyone that recording!"  
Apparently John had been waiting outside the lab longer than I'd thought.

_A/n: a review or two would be wonderful! And happy Series 3 filming day! XD_


	23. Nightly Experiences

Nightly Experiences

_A/n: so I'm reverting back to John's POV for this chapter because its nice to have a change now and then XD. This chapter is inspired by Guest, who asked for Sherlock sleepwalking/ talking._

_Have fun! Xxx_

I woke up at god knows what time in the morning with an insatiable need for tea.

That's not normal for me. Sure, I need tea quite a lot these days. It always provided a rather soothing escape from hurricane Sherlock. But wanting tea at 1.30 was weird.

Either way, it seemed I was going to have to get up anyway, so I did, sliding out of bed carefully, and creeping along the floor, trying not to disturb Sherlock downstairs. I opened my door slowly, wincing at the god awful groaning it made as I did so. Jesus Christ why was everything so bloody loud when you wanted to be quiet? That door had been so loud I was pretty sure the neighbours heard it.

A shadow flickered in the corner of my room, just catching my eye, and I froze, subconsciously holding my breath for a moment.

Nothing. Everything was dark and still and quiet (now that the door had shut up, thank god).

I went back to creeping, shaking my head slightly. I still felt a little slow after my need for tea woke me up. I'd actually had a nice dream for once.

Half way down the stairs, my door started groaning again.

_On its own_.

My stomach dropped and I turned around so fast I nearly lost my footing.

At first the doorway was empty.

And then, out of no where, a tall dark figure was standing there.

"HOLY JESUS!" I yelled at the top of my lungs, jumping so badly that I actually _did_ loose my footing.

Before I could do anything else, the floor had disappeared and I was thundering down the stairs. Bang bang thud thud. I was pretty sure I'd done at least three 'James Bond' rolls, about two gambols and hit my head at least twice before I rolled to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, by the door, my head spinning. And what was worse was that the whole series had sounded like a nuclear bomb going off in the quiet.

After a moment spent assessing my aching limbs and rather sore tooth, I tried standing up (unsuccessfully) and ended up slouching against the banister, looking up at my door.

The dark figure was shuffling forward languidly. No laughing, no worrying, no talking. I frowned.

"What the hell..."

The figure moved into the lighter hallway, and I realised.

It was Sherlock.

Jesus bloody Christ it was _Sherlock_!

"Sherlock!" I hissed. I didn't know what I found more disturbing. The fact that Sherlock had been standing in the dark of my room like some sort of murder, or the fact that he had very nearly made me shit myself. Neither option made me very pleased, "what the bloody hell do you think your bloody doing in my bloody room, you absolute _nutter_!"

No response. Nothing. His face was half cast in shadows.

"Sherlock!" I shouted, forgetting about keeping the noise down.

"There are cows on the roof,"

Would you believe, I actually _looked. Up._

Before realising what the hell he'd said. Bloody gullible. I turned to glare at him, though part of me was seriously worried.

"There are... Cows?" I repeated slowly, not really sure what to make of that sentence, "on the roof?"

"I want..." Sherlock began slowly again, while I stood (or actually slouched) dumbfounded, staring at him like a lunatic, "I want jelly,"

My mouth dropped open. Oh dear holy Lord, I thought he was broken. Sherlock didn't ever. Ever. Ask for jelly.

"You want jelly?" I repeated deumbfounded.

"Rainbow... ,Mycroft jelly,"

I cracked up. I couldn't help it. Mycroft jelly?

_Mycroft Freaking Jelly_?

"Okay Sherlock," I gasped, trying to get my breath back, wiping my streaming eyes, "that's enough now, go to bed you nutter,"

"Cows are like rainbows," he mumbled.

Of all the bizarre things to come out of his mouth, that had to be the winner. I wondered for one delirious moment if I'd hit my head rather too badly, and was hallucinating. Or hearing things. Or if this was one of those bizarre dreams I sometimes had. What else could it be? I didn't wake up usually, wanting tea. I didn't get stalked by my flatmate and fall down the stairs, and Sherlock definitely. Definitely didn't just start talking about Mycroft jelly or cows on roofs or rainbows.

It was a possible, hopeful, hypothesis. The alternative meaning either I, or Sherlock had gone mad.

I might have believed it if my tooth wasn't hurting.

"Sherlock," I finally managed to stand up straight without feeling dizzy, and I headed towards him slowly, "you're tired, you need to sleep," I had put on my doctor's voice.

And then I finally saw the whole of his face, away from the shadow, and it all became clear.

He was asleep.

All this bloody time. He had been sleepwalking, and sleeptalking. No bloody wonder he was talking nonsense.

I let out a breathy, relieved laugh. Thank bloody god for that!

I had really started to worry.

"Donovan has hair," he stated slowly, oblivious to my relieving epiphany.

What the hell was this lunatic dreaming about? His mind must be a really weird place to be. I put my hands on his shoulders and guided him back to his bedroom calmly, taking extra care on the stairs, for I didn't really want to take another trip down them.

Finally, I got him settled in, and I, now fully awake and alert and rather confused about this bizarre nightly experience, sat in the empty lounge reading a book. I had tea too of course. Couldn't live without tea. Not after nights like this anyway.

And this whole bloody thing had started because I'd wanted bloody tea.

I'd learnt my lesson. I was never getting up in the early hours of the morning for tea ever again.

A few hours later, at about 7.00, Sherlock ambled slowly into the room, and I had started feeling my bruises. I bet I probably looked like Mr Blobby for all the bruises I had (or at least felt). He stopped short when he saw me, obviously wondering why I'd got up so early.

"You're never up this early," he mumbled, frowning, rubbing his eyes and looking thoroughly bedraggled. My theory was correct.

"Had a nice night did you?" I asked him pleasantly, ignoring his earlier accusation.

He shrugged, yawning, "you?"

Strangely conversational this morning. I wondered if his throat hurt. Or if he remembered what he'd been dreaming about. I would give anything to find out what he'd been dreaming about. If it involved a rainbow cow eating Mycroft jelly on the roof it would definitely be worth it.

"It was interesting," I said finally. Then I nod at him, "there are cows on the roof,"

To my absolute amazement, he looks up, before snapping his eyes back to me, scowling.

"Very funny John," he scoffs, "why would cows be on the roof?"

I giggle at his confusion, even if he did try to hide it, before leaning forward, "tell me," I begin seriously, "how are cows like rainbows? And what the freaking hell is Mycroft jelly?"

_A/n: this was kind of influenced by one of my own experiences. In which I was John and my brother was Sherlock. Only it wasn't Mycroft jelly. XD_

_Anyway a review or two would be great! Xxx _


	24. Milk

Milk

_A/n: I'm sorry it took so long guys! I've been revising like crazy and had a writers block the size of Mount Rushmore. This one is inspired by my friend, who asked for Sherlock missing John. I also gained some of my ideas off a really sweet drawing I saw on Tumblr. I wish I had a link to it. The drawing is not mine by the way. I simply really liked it.  
Anyway, I hope you like it xxx_

My phone was buzzing and I ignored it. I wasn't too happy with Sherlock at the moment, and it was definitely Sherlock texting.  
We'd ran out of milk again, and in short he'd refused to get it.  
More accurate terms would be he threw a massive tantrum over it and the bookshelves were now dismantled.  
All over milk.  
Looks like I was never going to stop making trips to the corner shop for bloody milk.  
I glared at the white bottles sitting innocently in the chiller zone. God how I hated those white bottles. I sighed and picked up two of them to be safe. Two bottles for two men. How bloody ridiculous.  
I honestly wondered where the hell the milk all went. Sure we had tea sometimes but was that really enough to warrant needing a new two litre bottles almost every week?  
Ok, perhaps we had tea more than just 'sometimes'. More like, every half an hour. I realised suddenly that I was starting to want tea almost all the time now. That was Sherlock's fault. Christ I needed a bloody holiday.  
One where milk was provided.  
My phone started buzzing continuously now and I realised he was phoning me.  
Jesus Christ he was bloody eager. He never usually called anyone.  
I cursed loudly. An old woman skirted around me as though I was carrying some contagious disease.  
I ignored the phone call, and went to the counter. The woman raised her eyebrows but otherwise said nothing.  
I stuffed the milk in a bag and headed out the shop, feeling rather bad tempered.  
On the walk home, my phone just kept buzzing. As furious with him as I was for refusing to buy milk, I was starting to wonder what the hell was so important. It was weird.  
I transferred the bag to my right hand and dug into my pocket to find my phone  
I checked the messages and almost chocked.  
203 texts and 3 phone calls. Jesus. Christ. I put my phone back, starting to feel slightly bad for ignoring him. Whatever it was had to be important.  
I got to 221B quickly, and unlocked the door.  
"Sherlock? I'm home!" I shouted up the stairs.  
Silence was the firm reply.  
"Sherlock!" I yelled, raisin my voice. I started up the stairs.  
The flat door burst open, making me jump.  
"John!" He gasped. A dishevelled, pale Sherlock bounded out the room, heading towards me frantically. I gaped at him.  
"Sherl-," I began.  
I was muffled by the detectives long arms around me. My eyes widened, and I was absolutely rigid with shock. I couldn't do anything.  
"Umm...Sherlock?" I mumbled.  
He pulled back, "John I'm sorry for the bookshelves. Please don't leave,"  
"Leave? Why would I leave?" I was grateful for managing a coherent sentence to be honest. This was not Sherlock. Sherlock did not hug.  
And he definitely didn't cling on to me like my own personal octopus.  
"You were gone for ages and ages and you didn't answer your phone and I thought you were never ever ever ever coming home ever,"  
Ok, this was strangely touching but incredibly scary too. I stared at his frantic eyes, pale face and lips. Fear.  
Jesus Christ, it was all genuine. This wasn't just some ploy to get me to make him tea or put up with an experiment.  
I stared at him. I was very scared. Very very scared.  
"Are you feeling ill Sherlock?" I asked cautiously. That would perhaps make this strange behaviour more probable.  
He laughed. A short, hysterical laugh that just served to make me ten times as concerned as I was before. Lord.  
"Oh I'm... I'm fine John," he said.  
I was not convinced.  
"Where did you go John?" He asked quietly, subdued again.  
I tried to move, but it was ridiculously difficult with Sherlock practically on top of me. In fact, I was finding pretty much everything difficult at the moment.  
"Sherlock, you know bloody well where I went," I said, starting to get irritated as well as scared.  
"Where?"  
"The bloody corner shop you nutter, can you let go now? I can't feel my arms," this was true enough. He was holding on so tightly it felt like my arms had been replaced with rubber. I cringed, swearing under my breath. Now they were full of pins and needles and god they hurt.  
I headed slowly up to the room.  
I could hardly set one foot into the lounge before I realised what was wrong.  
And I almost dropped the bloody milk.  
"Jesus..." Words completely failed me, which was as well because the inside my head needed washing out with bleach, the words were that bad.  
"I was so scared John, I thought you were gone forever. I... I panicked,"  
I felt like I was buffering. Slowly.  
The room was just... I couldn't...It was unrecognisable.  
"Panicked?" I managed to squeak. The most pathetic sound I had ever made but my shock rendered me incapable of much more, "panicked?!"  
"You weren't answering your phone," he mumbled, scuffing his toe into the carpet like a little kid.  
Panic. Right. Dear lord.  
More like have a _bloody fit_. How could one person cause so much bloody destruction?  
"What..." I managed finally, "the bloody hell...did you do?"  
"Does it need saying?" He looked slightly wary of me now. I supposed I looked like I was about to go supernova at any moment. I sure felt like it.  
We were silent for a long time.  
"Oh! You got milk!" Sherlock suddenly stated cheerfully...

_A/n: aaaannnnnddd yeah, I think you can guess what happens next XD. A review or two would be lovely! And if you have any ideas I really do need some! Thanks xxx_


	25. Experiment

Experiment

_A/n: I hope you are all still enjoying this story! This one is inspired by Guest who asked John being dragged into an experiment. I really hope it's okay! Xxx_

One thing I knew was that I definitely hadn't been lying here five minutes before.

I'd gone to bed. I remembered clearly. I'd climbed under the sheets and closed my eyes and slept.

So why. The bloody hell. Was I lying downstairs on the carpet in the middle of the lounge?

I raised my head slightly. This was the weirdest thing to ever happen to me.

Had I slept- walked? And just dropped there? Jesus I needed to get a grip on myself.

I started to get up.

"No. Don't move," I froze. That was Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" I mumbled, confused.

"Don't move at all,"

I dropped my head again, watching his legs hurry past.

"What the hell am I doing down here?" I asked him. He would know. Knowing my bloody luck it had been him who had moved me in the first place.

"I required your assistance,"

A bizarre image of Sherlock dragging me down the stairs by the ankles filled my head. I hoped to god that hadn't really happened. Mycroft would be amusing himself rather too much with the tapes. God we really needed to de-bug the flat.

But then I realised what he'd said. Oh god.

"Why?" I asked sharply, "my assistance for what?"

"An experiment," Sherlock's voice floated down to me. I groaned. Sherlock's track record of experiments wasn't very good.

"Sherlock-," I began.

"Just lie very still,"

"If I end up with antlers I'm going to kill you,"

"Don't be ridiculous John, that's not even remotely possible, now stop talking,"

I sighed impatiently, and stared angrily at the ceiling. When had I sighed up for this?

"When did I sign up for this?" I asked.

"Yesterday, now shut up,"

I rolled my eyes, "I wasn't home yesterday,"

"What did I just say? Shut up, you're supposed to be dead,"

My head shot up, I caught site of him leaning over me, eyes glazed over like they always were when he was thinking, "excuse me?"

He caught me watching, "John for gods sake lie down, your ruining it!"

I dropped again, "what do you mean?"

"You're recreating a crime scene, you're the victim so for the last time shut up,"

Bloody ridiculous. All I wanted was some well earned sleep, but no, now I was being used as a dead body. In the middle of the night.

And as if it couldn't have got any worse. One minute I was warm. The next I was absolutely bloody freezing. And wet. Christ very wet.

Very wet and very cold in a certain area that really, really didn't agree with cold at all. Holy _shit_.

I think I jumped a mile.

"Jesus bloody Christ what did you just do?" I spluttered. It felt like that area had been doused in cold water.

I probably had been doused in cold water.

"Shhh," he hissed.

More cold. And more wet, down my legs. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Shit!" I stammered.

Now it was being spread up my waist.

"Sherlock-,"

I had just enough time to see my nutter and so very, very dead flat mate, clutching a bucket of what was unmistakably water, before my face got drenched.

Bloody hell it was _freezing_! The water drained away and I was spluttering and coughing.

"I am going to kill you!" I yelled at him, forgetting for a moment that it was in fact somewhere around one in the morning, "I am going to _kill_ you!"

"The victim had been in the Thames a while," That was obviously his way of apologising.

"Oh so what did you want to achieve, you want to drown me too? Or give me hypothermia?"

"Exactly John! The victim obviously wasn't drowned. So what, or rather who killed him?"

Now the nutter wasn't even bloody listening. I closed my eyes and sighed heavily. I hoped he finished up soon.

Sherlock's hand suddenly closed around my wrist and I tensed up immediately.

"John! Act dead!" he reprimanded. I scowled, letting my hand go limp.

He pulled my hand into the air, raising it so it was up straight.

Then he held my elbow into position, and started bending by arm, so I was doing, in effect, some bizzare bicep curl. Jesus Christ, why did I let him do things like this?

He lay my hand across my chest carefully.

With the other arm, he seemed to make me do a lazy eight, before arranging my arm over my head. The wet material of my pyjama sleeve stuck to my forehead. God, it was cold! I shivered a little.

"No, don't shiver, your acting dead!" he said immediately.

"Oh I'm sorry, but you're not the one drenched in icy water!" I hissed.

"Shh,"

"If you tell me to shush one more time I will kick you in the face,"

"That will ruin the experiment,"

"Well then, if you shush me one more time, I will kick you in the face later, when you're not expecting it,"

Oh god now he was moving my legs too. Suddenly I felt like I was in the position to ride a bicycle. I bet I looked ludicrous. I sure felt bloody ludicrous. It was not every day you have to lie on the rather hard and uncomfortable lounge floor of your flat, doused in cold water and positioned like a dead man. I bet Mycroft was absolutely loving this.

"Somethings still missing," Sherlock was musing. Fear curled in my stomach. Lord almighty what did he want to do now?

And then something hard and cold was rammed into my face.

"Ow!" I shouted, wanting to say a lot worse, but suppressing it.

"There, I knew he had glasses,"

Glasses. Right.

My nose stung like hell now.

"From his position, it would seem that he received a blow to the back of the head, of some force, and he sprawled out like this,"

I felt the floor shift and heard the soft pattering of his feet on the carpet. He seemed to be moving closer to my head.

"It must have been the force that killed him, then, panicking, the murderer dumped the body in the Thames. So was it an accident? A rash move out of anger?"

"What was the motif?" I grumbled, trying not to grimace as Sherlock's hands started prodding at my head.

"She was in love with him. He payed her no attention,"

My eyes snapped open. My vision was incredibly cloudy thanks to those ridiculous glasses he'd shoved on me.

"She?" I asked, surprised.

He waved at me, annoyed, "close your eyes, and yes it's obviously a she,"

Prod, prod, prod. His fingers went down my back.

"Stop it," I ground my teeth. I was starting to get fed up.

"Shh,"

That was it. I turned. Batted his hands away and stood up shakily. I was exhausted, freezing and in a very bad mood.

"John! Lie back down! I was almost-,"

"I don't care," I said through clenched teeth, "I'm cold and wet and I want to go to bed,"

Before he could turn his puppy eyes on me, I stalked away from him, and the John shaped wet patch in the middle of the lounge.

The cold air was making me shiver violently. Shower. Shower first. I turned and stropped over to the bathroom instead.

I was never letting him do that to me again. Ever.

_A/n: A review or two would be lovely! If you have any ideas let me know! Xxx_


	26. Washing

Washing

_A/n: sorry about the long wait, I've been revising, for my exams are in four weeks time! This one was inspired by Pergjithshme who asked for a story involving the laundry going wrong. Hope everyone enjoys it! Xxx_

I really had no idea what had happened.  
_I had no idea what had happened._  
My knees felt wet where I was kneeling, which was quite unpleasant, but to be honest, that was the last of my worries at the moment.  
"I don't understand," I mumbled to myself, admittedly a little confused. I checked the blue box again.  
One scoop of powder, it said. I'd put one scoop in. Straight in.  
I stared at the slightly smoking wreckage for a moment, then took a deep breath, and plunged my hand into the washing machine.  
It was cold and wet in there, but I pulled the rest of the clothes out anyway.

Going back a few minutes ago, I'd been innocently reading in my armchair, when something had started making a horrendous squealing noise. It had been so loud and so sudden, I'd literally dropped my book in surprise, quite unnerved. I put down my book carefully, and ventured into the kitchen.  
To my intense horror, I realised the squealing was in fact the washing machine, and not only that, but it was now juddering in its frame violently, jumping up and down so furiously, I was surprised it hadn't moved more than a few inches. It looked like a very lively, very bad tempered, square animal. And I had been scared to go near it.  
Then of course, the door had opened and it had promptly started vomiting out clothes. And water had spurted everywhere. And basically my day had just rapidly declined down a very steep hill from which there seemed no return from that moment.

So when I said the rest of the clothes, I meant the clothes that _hadn't_ burst out of the machine after the squealing and frightening, thunderous bouncing.  
The clothes in my hand slipped to the floor with a resounding squelch. I winced. I was pretty sure there shouldn't be a puddle of water where the washing machine was. In fact, I was pretty sure the clothes shouldn't be as wet as they were either. I sighed.  
And then I spotted something that made my day slip even more.  
Oh. Oh dear. Oh _no_.  
I picked up what looked like a terribly discoloured tea cosy, wrapped up in a ball. Though I thought I knew what it actually was. And that terrified me.  
Subconsciously holding my breath, I unfolded the ball of wet material.  
And I groaned.  
It was John's jumper.  
_John's. Jumper_.  
It had been shrunk down majorly and had gone from cream to a disgusting puss colour that made my eyes water.  
No, no, no, no. Not _that_ jumper. Not his favourite jumper. No.  
John was going to kill me.  
I pulled hopelessly at the material. Water trickled down my wrist. How had it shrank to that size? It was ridiculous.  
I would be lucky if it fit even John's arm now.  
Oh dear. He wasn't going to be happy.  
Oh _shit_, he wasn't going to be happy.  
I went back to the soggy pile of drenched clothes. Horrified, I spotted my white shirt, which now looked like a washed out, mangled version of a black and white tie dye, and another of John's jumpers, looking sickly green rather than grey.  
Then I took a deep breath, and observed the damage done to the kitchen, almost immediately wishing I hadn't.  
The clothes that had shot out of the machine like high speed, rapid fire, projectiles had draped themselves, dripping wet, across the various surfaces.  
Amongst them, I spotted my second pair of trousers on top of the highest cupboard it could have possibly chosen, a steady trickle of grey- ish water running off its hem; John's (I felt my heart plummet somewhere in the cold depths of despair) second favourite jumper, which had somehow managed to wind itself around the ceiling light (twice), and various odd socks, adorning my table/ chemistry kit like lights on a Christmas tree.  
Oh god. I rubbed anxiously at my face, suppressing a loud groan at my misfortune.  
How the hell had it gone so wrong?  
I tried to recall what had happened. I had shoved all the clothes in, making them fit, poured in the powder and set the machine to a reasonable temperature.  
I paused in my recalling. It had been a reasonable temperature. Hadn't it?  
I frowned, and checked the box again. 180 degrees it said.  
Ah.  
Right.  
No wonder the whole place smelt like singed material.  
And the smoke. That would explain the smoke too.  
"Mrs Hudson!" I shouted, suddenly incredibly panicked.  
She would know what to do. She usually did the washing anyway.  
Why John had decided it was time for me to learn I had no good idea. I had no time for washing clothes. Boring, trivial, ridiculous. Waste of my brain power.  
I pondered the colourful pile on the shining wet tiles with a scowl.  
How could I find it so difficult? Me? When so many normal people could do it. I scowled even harder. Ridiculous.  
"Mrs Hudson!" I yelled again, attempting, without much success, to stand up. The floor was very wet, and I slipped once or twice. I felt like I was on ice.  
"What is it Dear?" Mrs Hudson came in with the intense smell of fresh baking, cinnamon and tea.  
I clawed at the table and pushed myself up desperately, feeling myself slide slowly backwards every time I tried. The floor was so wet I could hardly find any stable grip.  
She stood watching my loosing battle with sympathetic eyes, not doing anything what's so ever to help me up.  
"What on Earth did you do?" she asked carefully.  
I gave up on standing quite quickly, sliding down and sitting grumpily on the floor, leaning against the table leg, "I tried to do the washing," I muttered. It wasn't my fault. Not really.  
Mrs Hudson took the yellowed jumper from my outstretched hand, lips pursed. Then, shaking her head, she went closer to inspect the machine itself, ghastly thing, which sat there looking sorry for itself, door open, hanging off its hinges slightly, smoking from its lid.  
"Tried, being the operative word I think," she clucked at me. I glared at the machine, "what did you do?" she asked again.  
"Put the clothes and that powder stuff in, turned it on,"  
She sighed again, "you're not supposed to put every colour in at once Sherlock Dear," she said gently, seemingly trying hard not to laugh at my incompetence, "especially not blacks with whites, and Dear..." she picked up the box I'd used, showing it to me quizzically, "where exactly did you put the powder?"  
I pointed at the clothes hole, forgetting the name (it was irrelevant), "in there,"  
This time she did laugh. But it was almost a pitying laugh. I didn't like it.  
She went over to the machine, luckily wearing slippers so she couldn't slip, and suddenly a small white compartment opened.  
"This is where you put the powder Dear," she chuckled. I stared at it.  
"Oh," I mumbled, quickly deciding not to mention the 200 degree heat I'd set it to. I had a feeling that was a bit not good.  
Mrs Hudson glanced up, seemingly in a wary fashion, hands on hips.  
Then she did a double take, seeing the jumper. She gaped at it for a while, apparently stunned into silence.  
"Oh Sherlock," she sighed after a pause.  
"What shall I do?" I asked, painfully aware of the time limit. John would be home soon and God if he saw this... I gulped quietly.  
"You shouldnt try to fit all the clothes in at once either, it damages the drum," she shook her head again, starting to look like a bobble head, "You know this is going on your rent don't you?"  
I waved a hand at her, dismissing her comment. It was irrelevant.  
"What am I going to do?" I repeated, more urgently.  
She pursed her lips, "well clean it up first, and... Well, John's lost his three favourite jumpers..."  
I dropped my head in my hands. Unbelievable.  
"Buy him new ones to compensate," she added.  
I nodded into my hand, before voicing the one thing that was lurking at the back of my mind, "John..."  
That was all I needed to say. The sympathy in Mrs Hudson's eyes told me I was dead. Three of John's jumpers shrunken and discoloured was too much. Not to mention the fact that one was on the light.  
"You'll be alright," Mrs Hudson said, not in the slightest sounding convinced, "I'll help clean,"  
It took us three hours to dry and 'dispose' of the drenched clothes and kitchen, and even then we had no idea what to do with the machine. It was obvious it had sort of died, it was so crumpled and worn.  
I covered it with a white sheet rather than do anything else.  
Mycroft could get us a new one.  
Of course it wouldn't be normal without something going wrong.  
By the time John got home, the kitchen was clean and dry, I had changed my wet trousers for a dry pair, and was feeling altogether confident that John would never know.  
John shrugged off his jacket, and gave me a worn smile. I noticed blood on his shirt.  
"What happened?" I asked.  
He sighed, "young boy had a nose bleed when I was checking his throat," he gestured to the stain,"you can tell what happened next,"  
"Right," I nodded.  
"I'm going to get changed," he said, heading upstairs.  
Of course, it wasn't until I registered what he'd said, when I realised what was going to happen. When John said 'changed', he meant shower and dress.  
Oh shit. Oh shit, shit, _shit_.  
I sprang out my chair and grabbed my coat. Time to run away.  
"SHERLOCK!" I heard John bellow as he discovered the bathtub was 'occupied'.  
But I had already left. The door shut and I ran.  
Well where else had I been supposed to put the clothes?

_A/n: just to let everyone know I won't be updating for the best part of six, maybe even seven weeks. Purely because my exams require my full and undivided attention. I'm sorry. Be patient my lovelies, I will be back soon! X  
A review or two would be lovely. Any ideas you have will be very welcome! Xxx_


	27. Poetry

Poetry

_A/n: YAY! I've finished my exams, and to celebrate, here's a brand new chapter for you all. Thank you so, so much for your patience, you are all amazing and I hope you haven't got bored. I love you guys. Honestly. _

_Right, so this chapter is inspired by missdark8607 who asked for something to do with John's emails to his girlfriends. I hope I did a good job, and I you all like it xxx._

It was a normal night.

I sat in the armchair, with my notebook, typing up our latest 'adventure' (if you could call getting chased around London by a madman in a clown suit an adventure) for blogging later on. The reason why I wasn't blogging now was simple enough- Sherlock sat at the table using my laptop, as _his_ was in his bedroom and the lazy arse couldn't be bothered to get it.

Still, this was normal now a days. He 'borrowed' my laptop, and, as long as he didn't blow up the hard drive, I was happy enough with him using it.

So, there I was, writing up my notes, waiting for my laptop to become available.

And I honestly, _honestly_, didn't see what was going to happen next.

Sherlock started giggling.

Sherlock? Giggling? What the hell was going on?

"Are you...umm," I couldn't decide how to end the sentence.

_Are you okay? Are you unwell? Are you in need of sleep? _

The fact of the matter was, Sherlock just didn't giggle. Not in the little, _alarmingly_ girlish manner which he was demonstrating now.

Sherlock waved my half finished words away, eyes fixed on the screen, grinning far too widely for my liking.

"Sherlock-,"

"You're eyes are like diamonds. They shine ," he said suddenly, eyes not leaving the screen.

My hand slipped, the pen scratching ink across the whole page of my notebook.

"Wh-what?" I spluttered, suddenly in a state of frenzied flapping. I couldn't gather my notes together, or find my pen (I didn't remember dropping it) or indeed think straight. Shock had rattled me. Completely.

Silence for a moment. It seemed he was ignoring me.

Then-

"Pillow- like softness," he suddenly exploded disbelievingly, before covering his mouth, obviously trying very hard not to laugh.

I stared at him, scared.

"Pillow- like..." I echoed, trailing off.

"You are about as shallow as the ocean," Sherlock began again, his shoulders now shaking with the effort of holding back his laugh, "you are full of beautiful mysteries, waiting to be discovered,"

My mouth had dropped at his words and I could barely stutter a coherent sentence out. Dear Lord, he'd gone completely around the twist. I was suddenly immensely frightened for his sanity.

"Sherlock-," I began again, now wondering whether or not to ask him if he was high (or if he was off his rocker).

I'd never seen anything quite like it.

Sherlock was now laughing so much, he was sprawled across the table, watching the laptop screen side-ways, hair the very definition of 'dragged through hedge backwards'.

"You have rose petals for lips," he cackled, seemingly on the verge of some sort of breakdown.

_Christ_.

I opened my mouth to suggest that he went to bed (and sleep the insanity off) but something stopped me short.

That... That had sounded familiar. Very familiar.

Rose petals for lips.

Where had I-?

My stomach dropped. My blood turned to ice.

Oh shit. I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach.

Oh shit, shit, _shit_.

"Sherlock... where are you-?" I croaked out, trying weakly to get out of my chair.

Sherlock glanced at me, humour in his eyes. Eyes that were nearly watering with tears of laughter.

"Your hair..." He gasped, "is like...a _horses mane_..." His voice shot through about five octaves due to the fact that he was finding it very hard to speak for laughter.

I actually think every capillary in my face was suddenly full of blood, leaving me speechless and tomato like, in front of my positively howling, raving mad, flat mate.

Because Sherlock was reading my emails.

More accurately, he was reading my emails to my _ex- girlfriends_.

"Oh my god, oh my bloody god!" I practically dived on him, trying to wrench the laptop from his hands.

Sherlock, laughing so hard, the table was shaking, jumped up, laptop in hands, escaping my desperate clutches.

"Horses... Mane..." He repeated breathlessly, running around the lounge with me in hot pursuit. I blushed again.

"They are private Sherlock god damn it!" My foot collided with the table edge in my haste and the pain made me want to cry.

"No wonder... You... Loose them so quickly," he snickered, as I hobbled around after him again so red I was almost glowing, " if I had been compared to a horse-"

"Shut up, give me the laptop!" I felt like I was about to die of embarrassment. This was cruelty. I hardly remembered writing the stuff.

"I need to send these to Lestrade,"

Horror sent my face pale, "you wouldn't dare!" I yelled, launching on him once again, sending him slamming into the sofa. I could hear his manic giggling, muffled slightly by the pillows.

He waved the laptop around in his one free arm (the other I had pinned tightly to his back). I lurched for it, snatching it ungracefully from his grasp.

He let go suddenly, sending me flying into the back of the sofa.

"Git," I grumbled, almost speechless with embarrassment, clutching the laptop (which I had snapped shut) close to my chest, like it was a precious child.

"You are _such_ a charmer John,"

"Shut your face,"

"Diamonds don't shine, they reflect,"

I punched him on the arm.

_A/n: a review to two would be lovely, I need something to cheer me up after the exams xxxx._


	28. Cluedo

Cluedo

_A/n: thank you, thank you, thank you for all your amazing reviews, you are all amazing, I'm so glad you are still enjoying this story!  
This chapter was inspired also by missdark8607, who asked for the story behind Cluedo. I hope I did a good Job! Xxx_

Sherlock refused to speak to me at all.  
And by that, I mean he was lying face down on the sofa with his head so firmly pushed into the pillow, I wouldn't be surprised if it had made a mould of his face when he did emerge.  
Though the chances of him emerging were dwindling quickly into single digits.  
I didn't bother asking him what was wrong. It was blatant the detective was having a toddler tantrum, and as long as I kept him away from anything explosive, I was perfectly happy to let him sulk. I hadn't done anything wrong.  
I turned away from Sherlock in order to study more thoroughly the newest addition to our battered wall.  
The Cluedo board, held diagonally to the wall with a very sharp kitchen knife, it's point directly imbedded in the conservatory. As it happened, the conservatory was where the murderer had 'done it'.  
Sherlock had _good_ aim.

3 hours earlier, when Sherlock and I had the pleasure of 'entertaining' Mycroft and Lestrade, Mrs Hudson had came up with the box, beaming like a lunatic.  
"I think we should all play Cluedo," she announced, "like a family,"  
"No, no were are quite alright," Mycroft said stiffly, looking completely fed up with the whole world and their dog (I guess there was only _so_ many times even the government official could take being called a Striped Moron by his brother before his patience began to wear thin). He said this at exactly the same time a grinning Lestrade said, "yeah why not?" (Lestrade found the whole matter amusing), and Sherlock grumbled, "what's Cluedo?"  
I stared at Sherlock, "you've never played Cluedo?" I gasped, scandalised.  
"I have no time for trivia," he sniffed back.  
I turned to Mrs Hudson, "we are playing Cluedo, " I said decisively.  
Mrs Hudson beamed at me and dropped the box on the coffee table in front of us.  
"I am not playing a child's game," Mycroft said smoothly, twiddling his umbrella.  
"Shut up stripy," Sherlock snapped. Lestrade smirked, clearly forgetting exactly who the remarks were aimed at.  
Mycroft glanced down once more at his suit. It was his suit that was causing him all this grief. It was laced with rather erotic black and white stripes, that was supposed to look smart, but the lines were so close together that it was almost psychedelic, and Mycroft looked like a walking optical illusion. I would bet anyone ten quid that when Mycroft got home, he would pay the entire British Armed Forces to destroy the suit within an inch of its stitches, and never speak of the matter again.  
Still, Mycroft pursed his lips and continued, "I'm not playing,"  
"Oh come on," Mrs Hudson scalded him, "it won't take half an hour! Surely you can afford that to spend time with your little brother!"  
"Clearly you don't know my little brother," he muttered, though he settled back down in his chair, and resigned himself to the game.  
I quickly ran through the rules with Sherlock, and the game was set up.  
That's when the trouble began. _As soon as the game started_.  
The characters were set out. A struggle ensued, as Lestrade, me and Sherlock made a grab for the same character, Mr Green.  
The table was overturned (twice), the game had to be set up again (three more times), and Lestrade got hit in the eye with the 'lead pipe' piece, before Mycroft's umbrella made an appearance and the fight broke up.  
By that time, Sherlock had triumphantly acquired Mr Green (and boasted as much throughout the rest of the game), I was left with Colonel Mustard, and Lestrade, whose eye was watering so badly there were tears streaming down the left side of his face, had Professor Plum.  
Then Mycroft realised that there were no male characters left.  
And he refused point blank to play a female.  
"It's just a game Mycroft, " Sherlock said, whilst Lestrade nearly fell off his chair, laughing at Mycroft's face, "don't be so childish,"  
"I am _not_ playing a female," Mycroft said indignantly, before Mrs Hudson took matters into her own hands, by thrusting Miss Scarlett into the folds of his tightly crossed arms.  
"There, matter decided, now lets get on with it,"  
"I'm not..." Myrcoft muttered furiously, looking at the little figure with repulsion, before trailing off.  
I personally found it very funny that Mycroft was having to play Miss Scarlett. I didn't say anything though.  
When the game began, I had barely moved three spaces, before I realised that Mr Green wasn't where he was supposed to be.  
"Sherlock," I said cautiously, "what are you doing in the hall?"  
"I'm looking for places where the killer could have hidden," he said seriously, his nose pressed against the board in his attempt to see the details in the room. I gaped at him, and Lestrade had to clumsily stifle his snicker.  
"No, Sherlock, no" I said gently, picking up Mr Green and putting him back in his rightful spot, on the starting block, "no, that's not how the game works,"  
Sherlock straightened up, and said nothing.  
Lestrade was the first to make it to the study, and he began to make his suggestion, "I suggest it was Colonel Mustard, in the study with the-," he paused, "hold on, where's the rope?"  
Sherlock, it so happened, was peering over the rope, eyes sharp, oblivious to the rest of the game.  
"Sherlock..." I muttered, nudging him.  
"One moment, I'm inspecting the weapon," he said, irritated.  
Silence fell, and Mrs Hudson looked sympathetic.  
"Sherlock, no, no" I pulled the rope from between his fingertips, fighting a smile, "no, that's... that's not how the game works," I gave the rope to Lestrade, and Sherlock said nothing.  
The game progressed a few more rounds, Mycroft continuously scowling every time someone called him Miss Scarlett, until Mrs Peacock made an appearance in the library. _No one was playing Mrs Peacock_.  
"What the hell is Mrs Peacock doing out?" I asked, bewildered.  
"She's a suspect," Sherlock answered primly.  
This time Lestrade couldn't hold it. The laugh he made sounded like an exploding paper back, and I'd never seen Sherlock go so pink in all my life.  
"Sherlock, that's not how the game works," I told him carefully, putting Mrs Peacock back in the box (she seemed to look a bit dejected at this).  
Sherlock pouted, and I could see a tantrum coming on, "what is the point of this game if I can do any deduction work!" He exclaimed despairingly.  
"Sherlock you can't deduce a piece of chipboard," Mycroft remarked dryly.  
"Then I cannot see any way of winning the game," Sherlock sniffed.  
"I did explain the rules to you," I told him.  
Sherlock ignored me, "the victim did it," he stated.  
"That's impossible," Mrs Hudson cried out, looking confused, "it's not in the rules,"  
"The rules..." Sherlock said stiffly, "are _wrong_,"  
"Sherlock just play the game," Lestrade looked delighted at ordering Sherlock around for once. Sherlock glared at Lestrade for the rest of the game.  
For what seemed like far too long, the game continued, until, after numerous attempts at cheating, I finally made it to the middle, and started my accusation. On the board, Miss Scarlett appeared to be lying in a faint in the kitchen, and Professor Plum was standing curiously over the candlestick.  
"I accuse Mr Green-,"  
"What!" Outraged, Sherlock looked up, horror on his face.  
"-In the conservatory, with the lead pipe," I finished, eyeing Sherlock with a raised eyebrow; I also swore that Lestrade's, still slightly red, eye started twitching at the mention of the lead pipe.  
"I didn't kill her!" Sherlock shouted, mortified, looking for all the world like he'd been framed for a real murder. Mrs Hudson's look of sympathy intensified, and Lestrade was laughing again. Even I couldn't stop my own giggle.  
"Sherlock, it's just a game," Mycroft said, rolling his eyes.  
"This isn't fair! How could I have killed her! How could I have killed her? I've been here the whole time, you've seen me! John you must have seen me!" He rounded on me, eyes wild, confusion and fear in his eyes.  
The exploding paper bag sounded again, and Lestrade disappeared from his chair. We could all distinctly hear him laughing like a hyena in the carpet. Mycroft closed his eyes. I was grinning openly.  
"Don't worry Sherlock, you're not going to have charges pressed against you," I said, receiving a furious glare.  
Of course the tantrum that had been waiting to explode suddenly made an appearance (Sherlock was Sherlock) and Mr Green sailed through the air (I still had no idea where it had gone).  
Mycroft and Lestrade made a hasty exit, Mycroft looking relieved to shake off his reputation as Miss Scarlett, and Mrs Hudson, the wonder she was, left me to deal with the six year old, on my own.  
Such was the point where Sherlock flattened his face in the pillow and I observed the sharp knife stuck into the Cluedo board. Sherlock had done that in a fit of rage.

After a moment of quiet reflection on the afternoons events, I finally stood up.  
"Would you like some tea?" I asked him.  
"I want you to admit that I did not murder the woman," came the sulky voice, so very muffled, it sounded like 'mffffmfmfmmfff,'  
"Sherlock-," I sighed warily, rubbing my temple, trying hard not to smile at the seriousness in which Sherlock was _still_ taking to discovering he was the murderer.  
"Admit it," Sherlock said.  
I sighed a laugh, "fine, you didn't murder her,"  
There was a pause.  
"I want tea,"  
I rolled my eyes.

_A/n: a review or two would be lovely! Reviews make me so happy! Xxx_


	29. Cooking

Cooking

_A/n: sorry about the wait guys! I've been really busy and the time ran away with me! I hope this makes up for it! This is inspired by a few of you lovely reviewers, you guys know who you are, who asked for Sherlock trying to cook. Have fun, I hope you enjoy it! xxx_

After gathering rather extensive and completely disastrous evidence, I realised that the kitchen really didn't agree with me.  
In fact, the kitchen absolutely hated me.  
I wondered why the washing fiasco hadn't been enough to sow seeds of doubt in John's mind, when he decided it was about time that I learnt how to cook. All enthusiastic and beaming, as if he knew exactly how much I detested the thought.  
I had not been amused in the slightest.  
"I don't want-," I began irritably, not really wanting to admit to my flat mate that I had never used an oven in my entire life. Before I could say anything more, it would be up on his blog and then the entire world would sneer at me.

Not that I cared. Much.  
"I don't care, you are learning," John said sternly, oblivious to my desperate attempt at puppy eyes. He gripped me by the shoulders and endeavoured to steer me towards the kitchen, roughly.  
The oven had never looked so daunting.  
I decided to employ the only tactic I had left.

I struggled, wriggling desperately out of John's grip and trying to slide off, away from the overly cheerful army doctor.

But then I found my escape plan hindered by the fact that John had actually seized me by the jacket and before I had time to register this fact, I felt myself being jerked backwards violently. For some reason, I ended up slouched across the floor, expression one of the upmost contrite that I could manage in the circumstances. John snorted at me. I set my face and pouted.  
"For God's sake Sherlock, it's just bloody cooking! It's not rocket science!"  
"Rocket science is easy," I sniffed furiously, as John dragged me like a potato sack across the floor, to the kitchen.

"You're a nutter," John grumbled.

I shook my head reluctantly, "I don't like the oven,"  
"The oven is perfectly friendly you big git, look at it,"  
I looked at it. A large silver cuboid with seven dials and tinted glass. Oh God! I swallowed.  
"I don't want-," I repeated.  
"Come on!" John nudged my arm, oblivious to my complaining. I batted his insistent hand away and got up myself. I stared at the oven.  
"Right, turn it on," John instructed, arms crossed over his chest. So much for cheerful: I suddenly felt like I was in an army camp.  
Blank. _How?_ I didn't know what to do (and didn't want to admit this fact) so I just stared instead.  
"Oh for Christ's sake! Please for the love of God tell me you know how to use a bloody oven," John groaned exasperatedly.  
"I have no time for useless trivia," I muttered, feeling like an idiot. And I was most certainly _not_ an idiot.  
"Okay," John took a deep breath through the nose, obviously irritated at my knowledge gaps. It looked like this was going on his blog after all.  
"Push this one down, and turn it," he indicated to one of the dials.  
I pressed it down, and jumped a little as it started clicking in earnest. Crickey how did people use these things? Ridiculous, preposterous. I stood there and let it click for a long time.

"Turn. It," oh lord, now he was using full stops between words. What did that mean? He was angry with me?

"Sherlock!" John suddenly barked.  
I jumped again at his sudden outburst, and hurriedly turned the dial as far as it would go.  
Fire exploded from the top of the oven.  
We both leapt backwards, John howling like a cat in fright. I stumbled backwards so quickly, my ankle got caught by the table leg and I was tipped backwards, skidding onto its surface. I stared dazedly at the ceiling, heart pounding far too fast than necessary, whilst John's howling morphed into something coherent.  
"Turn it off! Turn it bloody off!"  
I slide myself off the table slowly in time to see John, whose eyebrows had hilariously set alight, turn the dial again. The fire disappeared.  
"Bloody hell," John swore, distressed, patting out his eyebrows carefully, "one task Sherlock, one bloody task, and now I have half an eyebrow left,"  
I decided not to point out that he actually had only one quarter of an eyebrow left. The result was leaving me torn between gently edging away before he realised it was my fault, and laughing so hard, tears streamed from my eyes. The compulsion to do the latter was very strong; I didn't think it would help my case.  
"Okay, let's try again, but gently," John emphasised.  
I threw him a withering look, which completely dissolved when I saw his slightly soot blackened, eyebrow-less face, and turned away so he wouldn't see me fighting my laughter. What was wrong with me? I could usually keep my emotions under control.

_John: no eyebrows. _

I forced the manic laughter back down my throat, cleared it loudly, and repeated what I'd done earlier.

John held his breath.  
This time, a small flame was lit, and I grinned triumphantly.  
"Good," John said, relieved, "that's good,"

He reached over, and turned it off again. Confused, I looked at him.

"We need to make the batter," he told me.

"What?"

"We're making pancakes, idiot," he sighed.

Pancakes. Oh dear, this wasn't going to end well.

He took out a bowl, a fork, and a set of scales, whilst I hung back and watched him.

He pointed at the bowl sternly, "4 and ¾ ounces of flour," he told me.

Ounces? Ounces? 4 and ¾ ounces? What did he think I was an imperial measurement mastermind?

What was plain flour anyway?

I must have looked blank again, for John had to take a very deep breath before he was capable of speech not containing swear words.

"This is plain flour," he thrust a red package into my hand. I raised an eyebrow.

"Use the bloody scales you bloody nutter," John propelled me forwards, and pointed again, "The. Scales,"

I poured the flour in carefully, and watched the needle move.

"Stop," I stopped. John sighed.

"Perhaps you should do it John," I said amiably, eager to run away. Unfortunately, he shook his head.

"You are making pancakes if it kills me,"

"I'd rather not,"

"Shut up, put in a spoon full of baking powder,"

A good half an hour later, an exasperated, thoroughly worn out John finally announced that I could whisk the mixture.

I was incredibly excited to use the electric utensil that whizzed around at high speeds making a rather alarming amount of noise, and as such, no sooner did I have it in my hand, before John pulled it out of my grip, and handed me a hand whisk instead.

Of course, I took absolutely no notice, and, when John went off to the toilet, I switched on the electric whisk, and dove into the bowl.

Batter. Went. Everywhere.

I immediately received a face full, the cold wet gooey stuff managing to insert itself in my mouth, on my eyes, and even up my nose. I wiped my eyes, spluttering, my nose protesting painfully. I sneezed.

I heard a terrifying roar from the lounge, and jumped so badly, I lost hold of the whisk.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?" I quickly identified the roaring as John, and felt my blood run cold. Oh dear.

The whisk suddenly seized, and everything was silent. I blinked the mixture out of my eyes and peered at John.

Dripping with batter, no eyebrows, and very, _very_ red, John hauled me out of the kitchen.

I stood, watching him inflate slowly with air, waiting for the rant that would follow.

"What-," he began.

And that was all it took for me to snap. Right there, in front of the angry John impersonating a balloon, I exploded, laughing right in his face.

I couldn't stop. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this wasn't going to end well, but I just couldn't control myself.

When I finally managed to get myself breathing again, with a stitch in my side, I realised that John had been stunned into silence, looking very much as though someone had knocked the wind out of him.

"I'm sorry," I experimented carefully.

"Don't," he took a deep, violent breath, and wiped the mixture moustache from his lip, "Don't,"

There was a moment's silence, then:

"Don't," he began again, shaking his head slowly, "don't,"

He began to sound like a stuck record. I blinked. Lord I think I'd broken him.

"Are you-?" I began. He cut me off.

"I need to sit down," he said weakly, "and I need to re-evaluate the meaning of my existence,"

I stared at him. He seemed to be going through some sort of mid-life crisis.

Of course I hadn't realised how bad the kitchen looked until I turned around. And when I did, I wished I hadn't . The surfaces weren't even recognisable.

"I just wanted pancakes!" John wailed despairingly. He seemed to be lamenting the loss of the batter more than his eyebrows.

Perhaps it was time for me to leave.

Before I started laughing like a madman again.

No, the kitchen really didn't like me.

_A/n: a review or two would be lovely, and more inspiration for future chapters would be great! I need a cheer up! X _


	30. A Series Of Disastrous Events

A Series of Disastrous Events

_A/n: hello my lovelies! I hope you are still having fun and enjoying this story! Thank you all for your amazing reviews, they make me smile for weeks!  
This one was inspired by Azalea 'Rocchi' Maurish, who asked for Sherlock ruining John's dates.  
Have fun! Xxx_

The sound of the sharp slamming door made me wince violently; I stared at the wood blankly. I still had trouble processing just exactly what had happened.  
"Well that went well," Sherlock's voice, so dripping with sarcasm I felt as though I had been doused in it, came from behind me.  
I turned. I was angry, of course I bloody was. Who wouldn't be when this was the third girlfriend you'd brought round, and also the third to leave, bright red and furious, and slam the door with enough venom to poison England?  
In every case, it was, as most things in my crazy life were, _Sherlock's_ fault. And now, I had to admit, I was starting to believe that Sherlock had simply decided to think that he 'possessed me' in some strange, Sherlocky way. And obviously in that weird, hyperactive mind of his, possessing me meant that I could have absolutely no contact whatsoever with the outside world.  
It had started weeks and weeks ago. With my first date, Lauren.  
She was pretty, funny and friendly to almost everyone. And I decided, in my _complete_ dim whit, to take her home, back to the flat. Not in a single moment of that ridiculous thought process had I thought about Sherlock, and the consequence of Sherlock. In my head, the name Sherlock meant some sort of trouble was going to occur. That night was no different. In a way, it was ten times worse.  
I opened my flat, smiling at Lauren confidently. She was still giggling quietly at how much I fumbled with my keys when opening the door. I took her hand, and began to lead her up the stairs.  
The flat door opened, and we both stopped in surprise, blinking up at it.  
Then, the next thing I registered was the microwave, which was being projected violently out of the door, and flying menacingly towards us.  
"Shit!" I pulled Lauren roughly out of the way, and numbly watched the microwave's progress, clunking heavily down the stairs, making the most horrendous racket I had heard in a long time living at Baker Street.  
Finally, the noise stopped, and the now unrecognisable lump of black and silver metal came to a rest at the bottom of the stairs. I stared at it, shock, coupled with a sinking feeling of despair, rippled through me, and I felt very much like I was buffering, unable to register the meaning of why the microwave had ended up meeting this horrible, painful fate.  
"Was that..." Lauren began, with a nervous giggle (I suppose she had never ever seen flying microwave before now). After a few moments, in which I was still somewhat buffering, I nodded.  
"A microwave? Yes, yes it was," I took a deep breath, "it..umm... it obviously wasn't working,"  
A slight look of anxiety flashed across her face, her smile sort of frozen. I didn't blame her really. She had nearly got killed my the thing.  
"Right, so you don't...don't keep broken equipment then?"  
Oh Christ this was already going from bad to worse. I decided to grace her question with an awkward smile instead of answering, and then tugged on her hand.  
With a muttered, embarrassing "mind the bits of metal," I lead her up the stairs, and brought her into the lounge.  
Well, she didn't last long at all after that. One look at Sherlock, elbow deep in blood and human body parts, crouched in the middle of the lounge, and she started screaming shrilly, calling both of us serial killers. The fear turned to anger at me, for 'luring her in', I received a face full of lace and heavy metal (her handbag), and she ran out the door. It took me another half an hour to finish my buffering, as I comprehended the reality of being single, having to go without microwave diners, and having a huge angry burn on my face for at least two weeks before everything sorted itself out.  
Sherlock smirked a lot, and offered me ice and tea at least twice a day after the event.  
As if I hadn't felt bad enough already, when we got a call from Lestrade, saying that he had received serious accusations as to what we both did in our free time. Lauren had obviously reported to the police our serial killing ways.

The second date perhaps lasted no more than twenty seconds, which was probably so short, it was worthy of a mention in the Guinness book of Records. We had both climbed the stairs (no flying objects this time, to my intense relief). Then things started to go very, very wrong.  
I opened the door.  
And I nearly had a heart attack.  
"Holy mother Christ, Jesus..." I spluttered, biting my lips hard before I offended Katie even more. My heart was pounding violently, and my entire body was trembling.  
"What's wrong, are you okay?" Katie touched my arm, "you look like you've seen a ghost,"  
Well, I have to admit she was bloody close. In fact, I think I'd have preferred a ghost.  
"I'm...I'm...I'm..." I tried insanely hard to try and form a coherent sentence, but my mind seemed to be in total chaos. It took me a moment to catch my breath, by which time Katie looked both bemused and frightened.  
"I'm fine," I finally managed, trying hard to give her a smile that was not twitching around the edges, "I'm fine,"  
"Ok-ay," she said slowly, with a laugh, "if you're sure,"  
And before I could stop her, she opened the door.  
The yell was loud and made me cringe into the wall, my entire face flooding with colour at my embarrassment. She turned around, eyes wild, face bloodless: even her freckles had gone white.  
"You...are crazy!" She cried, "you... and your flatmate...are insane!"  
Before I could say another word, she took off, running so fast she nearly tripped up. The door slammed and I was left, ears ringing, on the landing, my heart still trying hard to cope with my shock.  
Sherlock appeared in the doorway.  
"Why did she leave?" Either he was utterly clueless, being a genuine asshole, or feigning innocence. Non of which was washing very well with me.  
"I want you...," I began, breathing hard through my nose, "to go in there...and take bloody Anderson's face off... the bloody wall," I was so angry, both because of my near myocardial infarction, and my completely disastrous date, that I was actually trembling slightly. My voice was deadly quiet, and it wasn't going to be long before I completely exploded.  
He blinked, "but it's a good target," he said with a completely serious distressed frown.  
I think I might have growled, my anger and shock reducing my vocal range to primal animal noises.  
"I don't bloody care, take it down or I swear to..." I paused, biting down my tongue, "I swear I will. Destroy. Your. Skull,"  
The words had the desired affect. Sherlock seemed to go through a cold sweat at the thought of loosing his precious skull, and in a flash the picture was ripped down. I grabbed the blown up version of Anderson's off putting, quite frightening face, and ripped it to shreds with my bare hands, taking pleasure in releasing my fury on the gormless face, that since then had proceeded to haunt my nightmares with vigour over a period of at least a month. I still couldn't bare to look at Anderson for longer than thirty seconds. Thoughts of nearly dying of shock in the landing and loosing my second girlfriend always haunted me whenever I did so.

The last date I'd had started, dare I say it, fairly well. At least this time I managed to take her to the lounge, and keep her there for longer than a few seconds (though I'd spent most of my morning drilling into Sherlock's head exactly how I would mutilate the skull if he didn't behave). We laughed and smiled and had dinner in the (for once clean) kitchen.  
We had just started up a movie on the sofa, when Sherlock slouched into the lounge.  
"John," he said. I glanced up at him, and then proceeded to ignore him.  
"John," still ignoring; I increased the volume of the TV. Mary glanced up at me curiously.  
"Joohhhnnn," Sherlock moaned. I sighed loudly.  
"What?" I snapped.  
"I want to talk to you,"  
"What about?"  
"About Clara,"  
I blinked, "who the hell is Clara?" I blurted, curiosity getting the better of me. Mary stiffened in my arms. _Shit_.  
Slowly, from behind his back, Sherlock extended his hand, "Clara," he explained.  
Well perhaps God hated me more than I thought. Sherlock could have withdrawn anything from behind his back. Something that wouldn't have caused Mary to yelp in disgust, and make a beeline to the bathroom.

But no. Even I had a hard time keeping a straight face at the single, bloodied eyeball sitting in the palm of his hand, staring keenly up a me with so much feeling for just an eye. I stared at it in total horror.  
"You...you...you," I began, fighting the conflicting compulsions to laugh manically, or to get very scared for Sherlock's sanity, "you named...an eyeball...Clara..." My voice came out strained, and I felt completely at a loss of what to think, or say, or do, or anything in fact, whilst Clara The Eyeball was looking at me.  
"I had to distinguish it from the others in my collection somehow didn't I?" He scoffed irritably.  
"Collection!" I yelped, my over-active imagination suddenly imagining dozens of eyeballs popping up all over the flat.  
"I have six," he said proudly, with a satisfied smirk, (I inwardly sighed with relief), "but I need you to take a closer look, can you see anything wrong with her?"  
Oh great now _it_ was being referred to as _her_. I closed my own, and tried to calm myself down by repeating 'its going to be okay' a dozen and a half times.  
"I think your date needs you," Sherlock added, stifling a grin. I glared at him, and then practically half ran to the bathroom.  
"Hey, are you okay?" I asked quietly, spotting her staring wildly at her reflection with a frantic look in her eyes.  
"Okay?" She shrieked, looking frightened, and very unwell, "how can I be okay? There was an eyeball...an eyeball... Clara..."she finished weakly with a shudder. God, Clara really was making an impression.  
And completely ruining my date.  
"Listen, I'm sorry, my flat mate is a bit...ah...eccentric," I apologised with a half hearted smile, "do you want to... I dunno...go somewhere else?"  
She nodded furiously.  
"John! I still need you to look at Clara!" Sherlock shouted from the lounge. I closed my eyes again.  
"Come on let's go," I took her arm and guided her gently out of the bathroom. She skirted around Sherlock, putting at least three metres of space between them.  
Sherlock and Clara followed me with puppy eyes.  
"John! I need you!"  
"Shut up Sherlock," I growled, though I paused in my tracks.  
"Please?"  
I sighed.  
And that's when I made a huge, _huge_ mistake.  
I left Mary, and went over to help him.  
Mary, for some reason, seemed to think of this as treason beyond the ordinary (apparently, I was choosing Clara over her) and, after receiving a slap on the face, she left.

The door slammed, and Sherlock was being sarcastic, and I spent a moment reviewing the series of incredibly unfortunate events.  
"I...bloody...hate... You...sometimes," I said stiffly. Poor Mary. She would never feel the same again. Though she really had no idea how lucky she was with regards to how lightly she'd got off. At least there were no flying microwaves, body parts, or Anderson's to haunt her dreams.  
"I only..." Sherlock began.  
"Shut your face before I punch you," I hissed, "which I am... dangerously close to doing," my words, whist I was being _deadly_ serious, starting shaking with suppressed laughter. I had absolutely no idea why.  
Quite suddenly, I was verging on hysterics. I just couldn't think straight. Clara, microwaves and Anderson's swam repeatedly around my head and I realised I needed to escape Sherlock's presence as quickly as possible. I would deal with him when I felt sane enough to do so.  
In the mean time, I needed some air.

_A/n: a review or two would really make my day! Xxxx_


	31. Drawing

Drawing

_A/n: I'm so sorry about the long wait, I was sooooo busy, I hoe you're not angry with me my lovelies! _

_This one is inspired by Guest, who asked for John getting Sherlock to draw something. This was pretty tricky to write, because I was trying to keep it in character. _

_I hope you enjoy it and I did a good job! Xxx_

Of all the things to be daunted by, I had never imagined it to be paper.

Just blank, ordinary paper, staring up from the desk. And Sherlock looked worried. Worried for gods sake.

It was his own fault, I thought to myself with an inward smirk. He was the one who had protested at my so called 'deplorable drawing skills', which had of course got be bristling like an angry hedgehog. Needless to say the little disagreement had ended when I rammed Sherlock into a seat and shoved paper under his nose with a clipped 'well if you're so clever why don't you draw'.

As if my drawing skills were deplorable. Ha! I got an A in my Art O Level thank you very much!

"I don't want to draw," Sherlock said curtly, rolling the yellow pencil between his thumb and index finger in an obvious display of boredom.

"I don't bloody care, if I'm so bad, why don't you show me what you're made of," I tapped the sheet impatiently, "go on,"

"But I don't know what to draw," Sherlock really was clutching at straws now. The sight of the apparently all knowing idiot in a flap was probably one of my favourite past times at the moment (or perhaps I was just feeling particularly vindictive today) and I wasn't going to let him back out.

"Draw a cat,"

There was silence as I let that information sink in. And when it did, the look on his face was absolutely priceless. The loathing and disgust at the great Sherlock Holmes being reduced to drawing fluffy animals was very evident, and it obviously caused him great distress.

"I am not drawing a cat," he said slowly.

"Why not? Cats are nice,"

"Cats are not nice. They are too..." He floundered a little, "too scraggy,"

Scraggy? I burst into manic giggling at his choice of words. It seemed evident to me that Sherlock didn't have good experiences where scraggyness was concerned. I wondered if I could find out more about his cat story.

In the meantime, Sherlock gave me the evils. I shut myself up, though my shoulders shook a little with the effort to stay calm.

"Come on draw a cat, it should be easy!"

"I'm not drawing scraggy stuff,"

"Lord Almightly Sherlock!" I rubbed my face, grinning openly.

"I'm not drawing him either,"

"No, I'm not...I wasn't...you twat," I smacked him over the head with a pillow in frustration.

Unfortunately, I misjudged just how powerful my hit was. With a quiet yell, Sherlock's head was driven forward straight into the table, and a loud bang ensued.

I started laughing uncontrollably, whilst Sherlock raised his head, looking very red, his face a mixture of rage and pain. This only made me laugh more.

"Shut up John," he grumbled, watching me clutch the back of his chair for support, "shut up,"

"Draw...draw a pillow," I snickered, waggling my eyebrows, and the culprit itself, at him.

Sherlock pouted at it, a vein twitching at his temple,"no,"

"Draw a dragon then,"

He snorted.

"A dragon?"

"Well I dunno, just draw something for gods sake!"

He sighed, and finally touch the pencil to the paper with a kind of ridiculous finality.

An hour later and I was looking down at the most ridiculous drawing of a 'scraggy' cat I had ever seen. It looked more like a demented stick with ears and a tail. If a stick could look demented. So probably the only thing Sherlock had managed to capture was to make a stick with ears look demented.

I couldn't think much more than that, because I was laughing so hard at the drawing that there were tears in my eyes.

"And you called me terrible?" I said, chocked slightly. I could hardly look at the paper. I knew that I would just collapse into laughter again.

"Well I didn't want to do a cat," Sherlock sniffed, looking abashed behind his nonchalant mask.

"Sherlock you are shit," I said bluntly. He scowled.

"I am not,"

"Well, at least you tried," I giggled condescendingly, malign him scowl even more. I glanced down again. Demented stick look up.

There were tears in my eyes again.

"Sherlock, I can't even call that..." That was all I could manage, before I was cackling full on again, and I found that I had to sit down. I tried to breathe, and found I had hiccups.

"I can't call that a- hic- cat,"

"Well it's not a cat, it's a scraggy cat," Sherlock blinked, sending me into yet another fit. This was starting to hurt.

"Jesus, you- hic- have scraggy issues don't you?" I gasped after a moment.

"No," he stuck his chin out defiantly.

"I would say to draw something else, but I dare say you won't, and I don't think I can handle it any way," I said with a deep breath, "and I've proven my point. You are shit, and I am better than you,"

"I was asked to draw a cat, your argument is invalid,"

"How is my-? Oh never mind, I clearly won this- hic- round," I got up and went to fetch myself a drink of water. The hiccups made me make the most ridiculous noises, and Mrs Hudson would probably start to wonder when we had acquired a seal if I didn't cure them soon.

Still, Sherlock's scraggy cat was something I certainly wouldn't forget in a hurry, though Sherlock was probably keen to delete the entire experience as soon as possible. In fact, he'd already thrown the stick with ears in the bin.

I was definitely going to fish it out later (when he wasn't looking). I couldn't let the absolutely fantastic fail of a drawing be thrown away.

It was going to be useful leverage in the future.

Maybe Lestrade would want a copy...

_A/n: a review or two would be lovely! I would have posted it sooner, but it was my birthday on Tuesday! Xxx_


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